


Evil Wears A Mask

by Wuchel



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wuchel/pseuds/Wuchel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reese and Finch are stumped with trying to find the threat against their newest number. Did the machine get it wrong this time? Or are they just looking in the wrong direction?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : The characters of Person of Interest don't belong to me. I'm just borrowing them with no intention of gaining any profit by doing so.
> 
> **Author's notes** : English is still not my first language, so I'm sure there will be mistakes. Sorry 'bout that.
> 
> The story takes place sometimes after 2x05 "Bury the Lede" and before 2x10 "Shadow Box" but it doesn't refer to any of the episodes.
> 
> As always, reviews will be highly appreciated.
> 
> Enjoy.

John Reese carefully climbed the stairs, trying not to spill the hot contents of the two paper cups in his hands. Reaching the top of the stairs, he found the metal gate door to the library already open, the soft sounds of fingers hitting a keyboard drifting through the hall.

"Good morning, Harold." Finch didn't even turn around from his computers to acknowledge John's greeting. Instead he continued to type away. At least Bear seemed happy to see him, as he bounced over to John, wagging his tail as he followed Reese close on his heels.

"Good morning to you, too, Mr. Reese. Nice of you to finally show up."

John didn't need to check his watch to know that it was barely past seven in the morning. He silently went over to Harold's desk, depositing the paper cup of Sencha Green Tea he'd gotten on his way over to the library beside one of Finch's keyboards and proceeded to move past the desk over to the glass board. Absently scratching Bear behind his ears with his now free  hand, he took a sip of his coffee from his own cup and studied the picture print-out of a smiling young man that had already been taped to the board. The man in the picture looked pretty much nondescript, but apart from the occasional mug shot they'd had on their board, all the faces looked nondescript.

John turned around to find a much more amiable looking Harold Finch fiddling with his cup of tea.

"I see we have a new number?"

"Yes. It came in earlier this morning." replied Finch, explicating his early and apparently quite busy presence at the library. Harold go up and joined Mr. Reese at the glass board. Indicating their newest number's picture with his tea cup holding hand he began the introductions.

"Meet Peter Connor, 35. He's single and has no apparent family. Parents died 15 years ago in a car crash. He's working at Reynolds Mutual Trust and Bank downtown, handling the bank's foreclosure proceedings."

Reese minutely raised an eyebrow and half turned to face Finch. "Housing foreclosures? That often involves a lot of emotion, especially resentment towards the bank and its employees. Might be the source of the threat towards Mr. Connor."

"It's certainly worth looking in to, but Mr. Connor here only handles the paperwork, not the actual foreclosures. And as far as I could see, he hasn't received any threats."

They both looked at the smiling face of their newest number while simultaneously taking a sip from their respective cups. Like an afterthought Finch added, "Actually, it's the only thing slightly interesting I could come up with during my preliminary background check. Everything else points to Mr. Connor leading a spectacularly unspectacular life. He works from 9 to 5 and in the five years he's been working at the bank he's never logged in late. He doesn't seem to take part in any social networking sites but he appears to be well liked by his colleagues and he even volunteers at a soup kitchen twice a week." Finch paused and turned to Reese. "Even I have to admit that he sounds like the most boring person in this city."

"But they always keep on surprising us, don't they?" John said softly as he studied the picture of Peter Connor more closely. The machine had brought up his number, which meant that _something_ was definitely going on. Now, they only had to figure out what that something was, figure out Peter Connor's role in it and how to stop it before things got ugly. Business as usual.

Finch limped back to his computer equipment, tossing his empty cup in the trash. "Unfortunately, they do, Mr. Reese." He lowered himself stiffly onto his chair, eyeing the progress of his programs. "I was about to give Detective Carter a call to have her check for a police record, but if everything else so far is any indication, then I wouldn't hold my breath on her finding one."

Reese strolled over to see what Finch had been working on, but the screens could have been filled with cooking recipes disguised as computer code for all he knew. He placed his empty coffee cup on the desktop and guided Bear back to his doggie bed, ordering him to stay. John missed the annoyed look Finch sent his way as he picked up the offending cup and dropped it in the trash beside the desk for it to join the other cup.

"How do you suppose we should proceed, Mr. Reese?"

John gave Finch's question a moment of thought. "I think someone holding a grudge against Mr. Connor for having their homes taken away by the bank is our best angle." John looked at Finch, inquiring, "I'm guessing you've already hacked into the bank's computers and security systems?" The question earned him a 'what-do-you-think' look from his employer. Checking his watch, John continued, "He should be leaving for work soon. I'll try to get there before he arrives, see if anybody might be following him and blue jack his phone. After that, you'll be able to keep an eye on him at work, while I'll go and check out his apartment."

Finch's eyes just briefly connected with John's before they continued to scan the multiple screens in front of him again. "You'd better hurry up if you want to get there before Mr. Connor does. Traffic can be quite the nuisance at this time of the day."

John smirked, "Oh, don't worry, I'll be there in time." He collected his coat and on his way out told an excited tail wagging Bear, who'd been hoping for a walk or a game of fetch to stay behind and keep an eye on Harold.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Reese managed to arrive at the bank's downtown address five minutes before Peter Connor was supposed to make his appearance. He parked his motorcycle strategically close to the entrance of Reynolds Mutual Trust and Bank. Pretending to be fiddling with his gloves and then with his phone he inconspicuously observed his surroundings through the open visor of his black helmet. As far as Reese could tell there was nobody else lurking around out of place. As soon as their number walked around a corner coming from the direction of the nearest subway station and got close enough to have his phone blue jacked Reese called Finch.

"Finch, you there?"

"Always, Mr. Reese."

John allowed a small smile to twitch at his lips at what had become their little greeting routine over the months he and Finch had been working together. "I've got eyes on Connor and I'm connecting to his phone." He heard typing on the other end until Finch confirmed the successful cloning of Connor's phone.

Taking another look around John made sure nobody was following their number. "It doesn't look like our man has been followed. Do you have eyes on him, Finch?"

"Yes," replied Finch. "He just crossed the lobby and entered the elevator."

"Alright, time to check out his home."

Revving up the motorcycle's engine, John easily weaved into the early morning traffic, disappearing in the direction Peter Connor had just come from.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The lock on Connor's apartment door wasn't really much of a challenge for the ex-special-op. Not being seen while breaking and entering during broad daylight was a little more tricky, but not something Reese hadn't done before.

He cautiously looked over his shoulder one more time before carefully opening the door. Steeping inside he quickly closed the door behind him and tapped his ear piece, informing Finch that he had entered the apartment.

From his position by the door Reese took a first slow look around the visible parts of the apartment. Something about the place felt immediately off to him, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Yet.

Intending to find out what exactly had caused the hairs of his neck to rise, Reese began a methodical search of the two room apartment, still being mindful to not leave any evidence of his presence behind. John rifled through a stack of neatly arranged mail envelopes on the small commode beside the door  - mostly bills, some advertisement, no personal letters - while Finch recapped his previous conversation with Detective Carter.

"She ran Mr. Connor's name and social security number through the police database, but as I suspected, she came up empty. He seems to be squeaky clean. Not even a parking ticket, though that's not as surprising as he doesn't own a car."

"That does indeed make it easier to avoid getting fined." John turned, directing his attention to the living room. "Same goes for speeding tickets, I would assume."

"Yes," replied Finch dryly. "Very insightful, Mr. Reese. I'm currently checking into Mr. Connor's bank accounts, but so far I haven't been able to detect any irregular money transfers or any signs of tempering. His accounts are all in balance and he does not seem to be in debt."

To John's ears Finch almost sounded a little disappointed. "So, our theory about the disgruntled ex-homeowner out for revenge is still our best bet." 

"Well, if you haven't found anything at the apartment that points to something else going on than I'm inclined to agree with your assessment, Mr. Reese. Though, I still haven't been able to find any threats against Mr. Connor from former clients. Nothing in his emails - personal and work."

"Maybe we are dealing with a smart ex-homeowner who knows not to leave a paper trail." John theorized while opening and closing drawers and cupboards in the small kitchenette.

"His phone records don't show any unusual calls, either."

John continued his search in silence, looking through all the usual hiding spots. He dropped onto his knees, using a flashlight to illuminate the spaces underneath. Something under Connor's bed caught John's eyes. He had to lie flat on his stomach and stretch his arm to reach the object, which turned out to be a small wooden casket. Hoping to finally find something interesting, John opened the lid only to be disappointed by its content. Apparently, Connor liked to collect buttons of all sizes and color. Dropping the lid he shoved the box back where he found it.

By the time he'd finished his sweep of the apartment his initial feeling about something being off had intensified.

"Finch, there's nothing here." Standing in the living room he let his eyes roam over the space. "But something feels weird."

John could practically hear Harold's eyebrows crease in confusion. "What do you mean by 'something feels weird'?"

Involuntarily John shrugged his shoulders even though he knew Finch couldn't see the movement. "I don't know, Harold ... this apartment", trailing off he tried to figure out what exactly had set off his spidy-senses. "It's meticulously kept. And by that I mean spotless."

"So? Mr. Connor likes his home clean and organized. That's hardly a crime, Mr. Reese."

Ignoring Finch's comment John went on. "It's also lacking a personal touch. No pictures of friends and family. It looks like right out of a catalogue." He stopped to let his fingers rifle through a neatly stacked pile of magazines that looked like they had never been read, thinking over what he'd just said. "Actually, it kind of reminds me of my own place."

"Don't tell me Peter Conner keeps a walk-in closet filled with weapons, too." scoffed Harold, causing Reese to smile.

"No, he doesn't ... At least I haven't found one, yet."

Harold sighed, disappointment having morphed into frustration. "That, at least, would give us _something_ to go on."

Proceeding to place their usual surveillance equipment throughout the apartment, John kept thinking out loud to share his thoughts with Harold. "Still, seems a little odd for a man with no military background to live like he's always ready to drop everything at a moment's notice and leave."

John took one last look around to make sure he wasn't leaving any traces of his visit behind. Finch, who had pondered on John's observation said, "I don't know, Mr. Reese. Maybe Peter Conner isn't who he claims to be. It's not like we never got it wrong before."

Reese couldn't argue with that. They had gotten it wrong a couple of times before, thinking that they were protecting an innocent, only to sometimes painfully figure out that others needed protection from them.

" _Evil wears a mask, which looks like all our faces_." John said softly, thinking of how many times that statement had turned out to be true. There had been times, John knew, the mask had just looked like his own face. He briefly closed his eyes to stop the memories from breaking through to the surface of his mind.

Finch's voice in his ear snapped him back to the present of Connor's apartment. "That's ... very philosophical of you, Mr. Reese."

"I must have read it somewhere." Reese mentally shook himself. "Finch, I'm done with the place. There's nothing here." 'Literally', he added in his thoughts, as he closed the apartment door behind him. Pausing briefly in front of the door he checked the hallway on both sides of him to make sure that no one had observed him leaving, but the place seemed deserted. He then made his way back to his motorcycle, not encountering a single soul.


	2. Chapter 2

John had been waiting outside of Reynolds Mutual Trust and Bank when Peter Connor logged out for the evening, punctual as ever. He unobtrusively stuck to their number's heel all the way from downtown Manhattan to the Holy Spirit Soup kitchen down in Brooklyn, where Connor volunteered to hand out food to the less fortunate twice a week. 

Having taken up position on the flat top roof of the three story building opposite the soup kitchen, Reese had found the perfect vantage point to observe the comings and goings of the kitchen's patrons. With his camera at the ready John leaned against the wall of the adjacent building patiently waiting for something to happen while listening to Peter's friendly chatter with his fellow volunteers and their customers. Every once in a while a new disheveled figure would make its way to the kitchen's front door, unknowing to the fact that by the time they stepped over the threshold their picture had been taken, sent to the library and immediately fed into a facial recognition program.

Reese had been standing in the darkness on the roof top for over one and a half hours and for the last 30 minutes he'd tried to ignore that his toes, fingers and the exposed part of his face were starting to get numb from the cold. Folding up the collar of his coat hadn't really helped at all.

"Finch? You there?" he asked, after having tapped his ear-piece, receiving an immediate answer.

"Always, Mr. Reese."

"Has your search turned up anything interesting, yet?"

"Yes, Mr. Reese. I just thought it best to wait until you asked to divulge the case breaking information to you."

The camera in John's hand ceased its upwards movement toward his face, his eyebrows creasing into a frown. "I take it, that's a no?"

Harold sighed. "I'm sorry. The lack of any solid leads so far has me slightly frustrated." A faint beeping in the background caused Harold to pause. John hurried to take the picture of a man making his way to the soup kitchen's front door before he could disappear inside. 

"We just solved another missing persons case." Harold didn't sound too excited about it, though. "That's the third already."

"You know, Harold, some of the 'missing' people are exactly where they want to be." Reese's eyes never stopped roaming the dimly lit street underneath him as he spoke from experience. 

"I'm ... aware of that, Mr. Reese." Harold remembered quite vividly where and in what condition he had found John Reese not even two years ago, softly adding, "At least if their numbers ever come up, we will know where to find them."

Raised and agitated voices transmitted by the microphone of Connor's cell phone from inside the soup kitchen pulled both of the men out of their musings, drawing their attention back to the events from across the street. Reese subconsciously squinted his eyes as he concentrated on the voice he was hearing for the first time that night, trying to gauge if the words spoken or the tone of voice carried any threat toward their number. Instead he detected fear, worry and uncertainty.

_"I'm telling you Peter, something is wrong."_

_"Calm down, Billy. You're upsetting everyone else."_ Peter Connor tried to appease the other man. _"Come on, let's go into the office."_

"I really wish I could have eyes on Connor right now." murmured John softly under his breath. He hated the fact that he could not see what was going on inside and that he could only rely on what he could hear.

"While I'm sure you wouldn't have stuck out in there a couple of months ago, I doubt you going inside the kitchen now would help our cause, Mr. Reese." commented Finch.

"You know", John mused, "I should have kept my attire from back then. Would be coming in handy right now."

"And yet, I'm glad you didn't." The veritable relief Harold's dry voice conveyed caused John to smirk. Knowing the other man's penchant for neat and expansive three piece suits, John's choice of warm, practical and only slightly used clothing he had worn on the day they met must have been an affront to the other man's sense of style. Though, the odor his garments had been giving off might also certainly have been a major reason for why Finch had insisted on him getting rid of them. 

_"Now, tell me what's going on."_ Peter Connor's voice heralded their arrival at the office, where apparently they could talk in private. 

_"They are gone!"_ Billy was clearly still agitated. 

_"Who's gone?"_ asked a confused Connor.

_"All of them!"_ Billy was practically yelling by then.

_"Billy, you have to calm down."_ Wood scratched across linoleum covered floor, then Connor continued, _"Here, sit down. Do you want me to get you something to drink?"_

"Sounds like things are finally getting interesting." Harold chimed in, using the pause in the conversation as Conner went to fetch something to drink for the distraught man.

_"Now, let's try this again."_ Connor said soothingly. 

_"Scottie and I ... we've been noticing that people were disappearing. You know, just POOF gone. Some ... s's'something bad is out there."_ Billy sounded beyond scared. His voice quivered and his words jumbled together.

_"Billy, you know that it's not unusual for people to wander around. Looking for better sleeping spots or maybe even some work. It's no reason to get all worked up about it."_

Having to admit that Connor's reasoning couldn't be dismissed that easily, John thought back to how he himself had been drifting around a lot during his months on the street. Never staying in one spot longer than a few days.

_"Then why is he gone now?"_ Billy hissed.

_"Why is who gone?"_ By now Conner sounded like he was getting slightly frustrated.

_"Scottie! We said we'd be looking out for each other and now he is gone. Don't you understand? He's been taken!"_

_"Billy, I'm sure there's another explanation. I'm telling you, he'll show up eventually. If not tomorrow, than maybe the day after. Tell you what, if he comes around I'll be sure to tell him you've been looking for him, ok?"_

_"But ..."_

Conner cut in, not letting the other man finish his objection. _"Come on, let's get something warm into you and I promise you'll feel better."_

Rustling and wood scratching on linoleum again depicted the ending of the conversation. Though, Billy tried to go for a last ditch effort. _"Peter, I'm telling you ..."_ Again he was interrupted before he could finish the sentence. 

_"I'm sure there's nothing to worry about. Just tell me where you are hanging out these days and I'll make sure your friend will be told to go find you as soon as he shows up. I promise."_

John continued to listen a few more minutes, but it was clear that Peter Connor had dismissed Bill's concerns as unsubstantial. He tapped his ear-piece. "Finch? What did you make of that?"

"Well, that man clearly sounded distressed, but I've been looking for reports verifying what he told Connor, and so far I've come up empty."

"I don't think there would be any reports, Harold. We are talking about societies outsiders. They take care of themselves. For Billy to go to Connor and confide in him means he either really trusts the guy or he is desperate."

Harold gave this a few moments of thought. "He did sound rather desperate."

John tilted his head to the side, replaying the conversation in his mind. "What Connor said has merit, too. Though, I'm not sure how this pertains to our number."

"I guess we'll have to wait and see." Finch supplied, not being very helpful in John's eyes. The cold had finally managed to completely seep through his coat, effectively expelling every last bit of warmth out of his body. It went already so far, that he could feel neither his fingers nor his toes and though he'd never admit it, but he was starting to feel rather miserable. 

An involuntary shudder went through his body and John was convinced that it wouldn't take long now before his teeth began to chatter. "Finch? How long till Connor's shift ends?"

Finch sounded a little perplexed at the out of the blue question. "Another thirty minutes. Why?"

"It's freezing."

"Ah. Look at it this way, Mr. Reese" Finch advised smugly, like only one sitting in a warm, heated room with no intention of leaving soon could, "it could certainly be worse."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, it could be raining and/or snowing."

Reese's expression darkened. "That's not helping, Harold." At Finch's chuckle John tilted his head to the side. "You know, heating systems can malfunction, too, right?" 

"Yes, I'm aware." Harold still sounded rather smug. "But then Bear would freeze, too, and I'm pretty sure we wouldn't want that."

_'Touché'_ John thought, an actual smile gracing his lips. 

The next 30 minutes passed in silence, however as John heard Connor say his final goodbyes to his co-volunteers, he gladly made his way off the building, following their number on his way home.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Detective Lionel Fusco sat in his unmarked police cruiser in textbook observation distance to the address he'd been summoned to by a text message from a blocked number. By now he knew how this worked. When Wonderboy or his boss called he had better cleared his schedule. So he sat in his car already preparing himself for what would most likely become a very long night.

Fusco jumped nearly out of his skin when the passenger door of his car was suddenly opened. He watched as John Reese's long frame folded itself into the passenger seat, quickly pulling the door closed behind him. The man looked like he had spent some time outside in the cold. His cheeks were tinted a healthy red and his eyes shone bright after having been assaulted by the cold New York City winter air. Though, Lionel highly doubted that something as inconsequential as cold winter air came even close to fazing the ex-CIA agent.

John turned to face the Detective and to Fusco's surprise his expression was actually friendly. Well, as friendly as he'd ever seen John Reese regard him, anyways. Somehow that only helped in raising Lionel's suspicion.

"Why am I here?" The words blurted out even before the other man had a chance to utter a word. 

"Well, good evening to you, too, Lionel." That half whisper which Reese seemed to prefer as his favorite means of communication raised the hairs on Fusco's neck. In his experience the evenings never turned out to be that particularly good whenever the dynamic duo was involved. He sighed in resignation and managed to even fake a happy smile. "Hello John. Nice to see you."

John tilted his head to the side, smirking one-sidedly. "Oh, I seriously doubt that." Turning his head to look out the windshield he said, "Do you see that man walking down the street?"

Fusco followed suit, easily picking out the sole pedestrian wandering down the sidewalk of the otherwise deserted street. "Yeah, I see him. Who is he?"

"That's Peter Connor. He lives right across, second floor apartment. I want you to keep an eye on him for tonight, understood?"

Lionel could feel Wonderboy's intense stare boring into the side of his head. "Yeah, got it. Babysit Peter Connor."

"Good."

At the sound of the passenger door opening again Lionel's head shot around, catching sight of Reese's back as he was in the process of extricating himself out of the passenger seat. 

"Hey, where are you going?"

Reese turned around placing a hand on the car roof and the other on top of the open door. He leaned in to face Lionel once more. His breath formed white clouds as he spoke, no signs of humor in his voice, "I have to sleep at some point, Lionel." John closed the door in Lionel's face and had disappeared within the darkness outside before Lionel could even think of a snarky retort.


	3. Chapter 3

It turned out to be a very long, very cold and very uneventful night for Lionel Fusco. He had watched as all lights in the apartment were switched off shortly after Peter Connor had returned home. That had been the most exciting thing to happen for the entire night and now, as it was nearing five o'clock in the morning, the battle to stay awake had taken over the major part of Lionel's concentration and by the looks of it he was about to lose. That's why he nearly suffered a heart attack as without any warning the right rear door of the car was opened to allow a brown fury thing with a wet nose to jump onto the backseat. Waving away Bear's nose from his ear he angrily turned to the passenger seat where Reese had seated himself again. At his first glance of the other man Fusco did a double take. 

"Wonderboy, that you?" he asked while taking in John's unaccustomed attire with wide eyes. Instead of his trademark dark suit with a white dress shirt and no tie he was wearing a dark two piece sweat suit, gloves, a woolen cap and running shoes. He grinned stupidly at John, who shot him an annoyed look.

"I hope you weren't sleeping on the job, Lionel." It always amazed Lionel how Reese managed to impregnate his sentences with unveiled threat while speaking in that low and soft voice of his. However, by now he'd grown accustomed to being on the receiving end of one of John Reese's signature threatening stares. However, his brain was having a hard time processing what his eyes were seeing. 

"I think I still AM asleep." John's eyes narrowed briefly, but apparently he decided that killing the Detective right there would be adverse to his current objective.

"I take it nothing happened while I was gone?" John asked.

Gone sleeping, Lionel thought grumpily. "No, nothing worth mentioning." he said instead. Bear was trying to get friendly again and Fusco had to once more defend his ear from being attacked by the dog's wet nose and tongue. Curiosity getting the better of him, Fusco couldn't help but ask, “Seriously. What's up with that get-up?”

Reese looked down at himself like he hadn't noticed what he'd been wearing. “I thought you would appreciate not having to continue keeping an eye on Mr. Conner during his daily early morning run.”

Bear chose that moment to stick his head between the front seats, yawning and displaying an expressive set of teeth. Reese smiled at the dog and gave it an affectionate scratch behind its ears. “Besides, Bear needs the exercise. Don't you?”

Movement at the entrance to Connor's apartment building drew their attention. Right on time – at 0500 sharp – Peter Connor stepped out into the brisk early morning air dressed eerily similar to Reese. Connor inserted his headphones into his ears, took a deep breath and started off running at an easy jog.

Taking this as his cue to leave, John pushed his door open. Bear wriggled himself through the gap between the front seats eager to follow his master out onto the streets. Producing a leash out of one of the sweat suits pockets, John clipped it to the collar of the excited dog before allowing him to jump out of the car. “Good boy.” He patted the dog's head once more and shot Fusco a quick look. “Talk to you later, Lionel.” With that he closed the door and Fusco watched as John started to jog after Connor, the dog's eyes clued to his master.

Fusco checked his watch. He only had a few hours left before he was due at work again. Sighing, he turned the key in the ignition, grumpily mumbling to himself. “'Why thank you, Lionel for staying up all night watching another loser for us' … 'Oh, no problem, you know, I don't really sleep'.”

Turning his car around Fusco headed back home to, at least, change his clothes before showing up back at work. It was going to be a very long day.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The soft pitter-patter of paws on the floor announced the return of Bear to the library. Exuberant as ever the dog pounded up to Finch excitedly greeting him according to the dog's code of behavior. John followed Bear up the stairs, but by far not as exuberant and excited as the dog, who now sat beside Finch happily wagging his tail, tongue hanging lazily sideways out of his snout. Finch regarded Reese's slower than usual approach, which was lacking his habitual predatory stealth.  
Reese had exchanged the sport outfit for his usual suit get-up and Finch dearly hoped that he'd had the sense of taking a shower first.

“Good morning, Mr. Reese.” he greeted his employee, while he kept tracking John's progress, slowly turning his body as John passed by. A painful smile that looked more like a grimace traveled across John's face as he practically made a bee-line for one of the chairs around the table they had set up in the corner of the room. Finch's amusement grew as John ungracefully dropped onto the chair, propping up his elbow on the table top and using his hand to support his head. Harold looked down and smiled at Bear at his side, who in turned gazed up trustingly at him.

“It sounded like Mr. Connor was giving you a run for your money … literally.” Harold deadpaned. John didn't move a muscle. Merely his eyes slowly moved up to stare menacingly into Harold's. “He had a head start.” he said softly with an even more pronounced rasp.

Harold's right eyebrow twitched minutely, before he handed out another jibe. “Yes, I would say he's got about ten years on you.”

Nothing in Reese's expression or posture changed, just the tone of his voice dropped another level, or two. “Let's just agree that Connor is ridiculously in shape.”

“If you say so, Mr. Reese.” A small innocent smile played around Harold's lips as he gestured to the carton placed on his desk. “Donut?”

Crunching up his face in a frown John straightened up and decided that it was time to deflect the topic of conversation from his state of fitness to a more pressing matter. He got up – a little less stiff – and wandered over to the glass board displaying the picture of the smiling Peter Connor, studying the information on the board, or more the lack of it. He sensed Harold coming up to stand beside him, his gaze directed in the same direction as John's. 

“Have you been able to narrow down the potential threat to Mr. Connor, yet?” John asked softly. 

Harold sighed. So far he'd been literally stumped with their newest case. Mr. Connor seemed like a genuinely nice guy, who nobody had any beef with. 

“No, I have not.” He turned his body to face Reese's profile. “I also haven't been able to find any evidence of Mr. Connor being a threat to anyone else, either.”

Reese inclined his head in silent acquiescence to Harold's subtle reminder that not all of their 'clients' turned out to need protecting. Quite the opposite. 

“I know I've said this before and been proven wrong ...” John turned to face Harold and continued to softly express his doubts. “But maybe it's time to consider that the machine got it wrong this time.”

Harold blinked at John's words, signs of doubt marring his features. He stiffly turned his body to once more let his eyes wander over the few facts about their latest number. The lines around his lips and eyes hardened as doubt was driven out from his face by pure conviction. 

“No. The machine brought up his number for a reason.” he stated, turning back to Reese. “We just haven't figured out why, yet.”

They looked at each other for a few seconds, Harold's face openly conveying his strong believe in the machine, until Reese nodded. “Alright, Harold. Let's figure this out then.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Reese had taken up position outside Reynolds Mutual Trust and Bank later that afternoon waiting for Peter Connor to call it a day and make his way back home. A few minutes after five o'clock in the afternoon Reese spotted Connor as he stepped out of the building into the already fading afternoon light. Folding up his collar of his dark winter coat against the bite of the cold wind on his exposed skin John followed their number just like the day before on his commute to his apartment. Using the afternoon rush-hour as a cover he mingled in the crowd, just one face of many. Keeping the appropriate distance John's eyes constantly roamed over the crowd of people, only seeing the tired faces of the working populace, with their only goal of getting home as fast as possible.

As expected Peter Connor disappeared down the nearest subway entrance with enough time left to easily catch the next scheduled train. John entered the train two compartments down from Connor's, slowly making his way back toward his target. As he went passed Connor the man was completely oblivious to the world around him with the ear-phones of his MP3-player plugged into his ears and his nose stuck inside a book. 

John dropped onto an empty seat two rows behind Connor, keeping an eye on the man's back. They were coming up to the stop where Connor had to change the lines on his way home. Fully expecting for Peter to get off at the next station, Reese was taken by surprise when he, in fact, didn't. He propped his right elbow on the window sill beside him, tapped his ear-piece with a quick jab of his fingers and moved his hand over his face to casually cover the movements of his lips while he softly spoke to Finch. 

“Finch? Does Connor have any appointments or other engagements for this evening that I'm not aware of?”

“No, not that I know of.” replied Finch immediately. “Why do you ask?”

“We just passed the stop for him to switch trains, but he didn't.”

“That's unusual.” mumbled Finch absently, giving his keyboard a good workout. “I can't get a GPS lock on his phone while he's underground, so you better not lose him. This could be the anomaly we've been waiting for.”

John's gaze never wavered off the back of Connor's head. “Don't worry, Harold. I have no intention of letting Mr. Connor out of my sight.”

“Well then, let's hope he doesn't make a run for it.” 

“That's … very funny, Harold.” John said not sounding amused at all. 

Riding the subway in silence for another 25 minutes John noted with dismay that more people were getting off the train each stop than were getting on, his cover disappearing as the crowd thinned out.  
The train was drawing into the next station and it seemed like Connor was getting ready to get off. John pretended to have fallen asleep, letting the other man pass by without moving a muscle. He waited until the last possible moment before he bolted out of his seat and rushed towards the already closing doors to just barely squeeze through. 

There were only a few people about the station's platform and John realized that he stood out like a sore thumb dressed with his suit. Looking around he spied the now familiar backside of Peter Connor ascending the stairs to reach ground level. John allowed the distance to grow larger between them before he started to follow his mark, ignoring the looks he received from the few shaggy people hanging around the platform, who, by the looks of it, just tried to get away from the cold outside. 

“Finch, he got off the subway and is heading for ground level.”

“Then I should be able to re-acquire his phone's GPS signal shortly.” It didn't take long until a soft beeping sound affirmed that Finch's system had picked up their number again.

“Oh.” Finch sounded slightly aghast. “That's not really the best part of town.”

John was taking the stairs upwards two steps at a time reaching the topside slightly out of breath. He looked around, trying to get his bearings and a beat on Connor, but the time it had taken to reach this part of town had made sure that even the last rays of light had said goodbye for the day. Turning in a slow circle he was about to admit that he may have lost sight of Connor, when his cell phone chirped.

“I routed the GPS-tracker to your phone, Mr. Reese.” Finch informed him. John pulled out his cell and checked the display, seeing a bright red dot depicting Connor's position overlain with the cities street grid. It was almost like Harold had read his mind, but John wasn't about to complain.  
Noting that Connor didn't have such a great head start, Reese casually strolled after him, discouraging a group of wanna-be-gangstas from approaching by shooting them his 'do-not-mess-with-me' look.

“I wonder”, Finch said in his ear, “what a clean cut bank employee is doing wandering around that part of town.” 

“I don't know, Harold.” John replied, picking up his pace. “But something tells me our Mr. Connor is up to no good.”

Rounding the next street corner John found himself in a neighborhood, where most of the houses had seen better days, some of them having clearly been abandoned by the former homeowners or tenants. John managed to glimpse Connor just in time to see him disappear in the front door of one of the houses with boarded up windows. Drawing slowly towards it and picking a spot to observe the house and its surroundings John positioned himself with the camera at the ready.  
He snapped a few shots of the house and using the WIFI up-link to his phone immediately send the pictures to Harold's computer back at the library.

“Connor just entered a house at this address. What can you tell me about it, Finch?” 

“Just a moment.” Finch said. John didn't have to wait long for Finch to supply him with the first pieces of information about the building in question. “The house was formerly owned by a Matthew Lewis, who lost it when the real estate bubble burst. He and his family were evicted about two years ago.” There was a pause as Harold familiarized himself with new information his search had yielded. “That's weird. The house has been empty since the Lewis' got evicted, but it looks like no proceedings to resell the house were ever initiated.”

Of the top of his head John could easily think of a few good reasons why an empty house stuck in bureaucratic limbo might come in handy. And none of them were particularly legal. Even though he had a feeling that he already knew the answer John quietly asked, “Who's been handling the property?”

Finch's voice held a slight trace of excitement when he informed John, that Reynolds Mutual Trust and Bank was listed as the current owner. They were finally finding clues that Peter Conner was involved in something shady and John would bet his favorite gun that the man had been the one responsible in handling the paperwork on the house. 

John checked his watch. Connor had entered the house approximately ten minutes ago. No lights had been turned on to indicate the man's progress or position inside the house and the sounds that were picked up by the microphone of Connor's cell phone consisted mainly of unrecognizable rustling. John was weighing his options. He could stay right where he was and continue waiting for something to happen or he could try to get closer, maybe even attempt to secretly enter the house, as well. 

In the end he didn't have to decide after all. The garage door rolled upward revealing a set of bright headlights belonging to a dark van. Raising his camera John snapped a couple of pictures of the van, making sure that he got at least one of the license plate as the vehicle pulled out of the driveway, the garage door closing behind it. He sprinted onto the sidewalk looking after the retreating car. 

“Finch, do you still have a lock on his GPS signal?”

“Yes.” Affirmed Finch. “Why?”

“Because he just left in a dark van.” John let his eyes wander the length of the street. Spying the hood of a car peeking out of a driveway down the road in the opposite direction Connor had just left in. John double timed it. 

“He's headed north.” informed Finch. “How are you going to follow him, Mr. Reese?”

Reaching the car that, as the rest of the neighborhood, had seen better days Reese prayed that it was still working and equipped with gas. He took a quick look around, answering Finch's question. “I'm in the process of acquiring my own car.” 

Finding the doors locked he pulled out his gun and using its butt smashed in the driver side window. Wasting no time, John got behind the wheel, hot wired the car and pulled out of the driveway, ignoring the angry shouts directed at him from the car owner, who'd run from the house, swinging his fists in anger in the rear view mirror as John floored the gas pedal in order to catch up with Connor.  
He was about to ask Finch to direct him in which direction he had to go, but Harold was already way ahead of him, supplying the necessary information within seconds after the chase had begun.


	4. Chapter 4

Catching up to the dark van Connor was driving wasn't that difficult with the GPS guidance provided by Finch. Having run its plates Finch found out that the van was registered to a resident of a local nursing home, who probably had no idea that he was the proud owner of 1999 dark brown Dodge Ram Van.   
John kept back, though never letting the van and its taillights out of his sight. It was changing lanes, heading for a highway exit. 

“Where the hell is he going?” mumbled Finch, who'd been following the two red dots depicting Connor and John on his screen. Watching the dot in the lead take a right turn onto 39th street something started to nag at the back of Harold's mind. Something about the area Connor was heading to sounded familiar.

“Finch, he just turned onto the Prospect Park grounds. I can't follow him or he'll know he's being tailed.”

The two dots parted ways on Harold's screens. The leading dot turned onto a forest park road, while John's dot went straight ahead, turning into the next side street and to stop there.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Connor's GPS signal stopped near the shore of Prospect Park Lake. Waiting a couple of minutes to see if the dot started to move again, which it didn't, John decided to head into the park himself. He abandoned the car under the cover of a cluster of trees a few couple hundred yards away from Connor's position, making the rest of the way on foot, staying off the path. 

He found the van parked in front of an old, run-down boathouse with Connor nowhere in sight. “Finch? I have eyes on the van.”

“Can you see what's going on?” 

“No. I'll try to get closer.”

“Do be careful, Mr. Reese.” Finch hated the fact that he couldn't see what was going on. All he had to go on where the red dots and the sounds that were picked up by Reese's cell. When John told him, “Trust me, Finch, I know what I'm doing.” his concern wasn't really alleviated. Actually, knowing that John had a knack for getting himself into hairy situations only helped to unsettle him more.   
“Oh, that's exactly what I'm afraid of.” he said under his breath, earning a soft chuckle for his concerns. 

Creeping silently closer, John stopped all movement when suddenly the ram-shackled door of the boathouse flew open. Even though it was dark, the soft moonlight enabled John to make out the outline of a man exiting the shed. He was bent over, moving backwards dragging something heavy along.   
As the person moved sideways in the direction of the van Reese realized that the heavy object was in fact the body of another person. Dead or alive, John couldn't tell.

“Now I remember why that location seemed so familiar.” Harold's voice in his ear nearly made John jump, though his tension went unnoticed. “That's where the homeless man told Conner he'd be crashing for a few nights.”

John was slowly getting closer, close enough to discern that Conner was dragging one of last night's patrons of the soup kitchen towards the van. He remembered how Connor had surreptitiously questioned the man about his whereabouts and his company. The night before John hadn't thought much of it, now he knew what Connor's true intentions had been and something at the back of Reese's mind started to nag. 

Keeping his voice as low as possible a theory started to form in John's mind. “Harold, I think Connor's the one behind the disappearance of Billy's friends.”

“What do you mean?” Harold asked confused. 

"I'm not sure, yet, but I'll be sure to ask Mr. Connor nicely." Connor disappeared behind the van, the sound of the side door being slid back echoing unnaturally loud throughout the woods. John started moving again, picking up his pace. There were only about 10 yards between himself and the van left.

Fearing that John was going to rush into an unknown situation without having it thought through Finch watched the two dots begin to converge. “Mr. Reese what are you going to do?” Receiving no answer he raised his voice in alarm. “John?”

John ignored Harold's voice in his ear as he stealthily rounded the front of the vehicle his gun at the ready and intend on stopping Connor from whatever he planned on doing to Billy, hoping that he wasn't too late already. Billy's lifeless form was lying on the ground right in front of him, but there was no sign of Connor. He crouched down to check for a pulse on the other man's neck and was relieved to find him alive but unconscious. He straightened up again and with his senses on high alert, Reese picked up the faint scrunch of pebbles behind him. He spun around ready to take on Connor. But even before he'd been able to complete his spin he felt a painful prick in his left calf and within moments of it John had lost all feeling in his left leg. The momentum of the fast spin made it impossible for him to keep his balance and John unceremoniously crashed to the ground dropping his gun in the process. 

Lying on his left side, the rough ground pressing painfully into his cheek he found himself unable to move. Blinking his eyes a few times to clear his blurry growing vision he was able to make out Peter Connor, as he crawled out from under the van, an hypodermic still in his hand. Connor bent down looking Reese straight in the eyes and John confusedly wondered why he had never before noticed the coldness in the other man's eyes. He had seen that look many times before in the mirror before and after he'd done a job together with his partner Kara Stanton. It was the look of a killer.

John's world began to spin and Harold's voice calling out his name was the last thing his mind processed before darkness claimed its victory over his consciousness. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Mr. Reese! What's going on?” Harold practically demanded to know, his only answer John's heavy breathing, rustling and something that sounded like a painful grunt. A loud thud, that he had come to recognize as the sound a body made when it hit the ground unimpeded made Harold jump up from his chair. Pain shot down his abused spine, but he ignored it. 

“Mr. Reese?” There was only silence and Harold's heart sunk. “John?!” he called out desperately. He watched in horror as one by one the red dots – first John's then Connor's – disappeared from his display. Wasting no time he reached for his mouse, placing a call.

“Detective? I'm sorry to interrupt your evening, but I'm afraid our mutual friend is once again in need of your assistance.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Detectives were already waiting for him when Finch pulled up beside their cars at John's last known location. He got out of his vehicle holding the driver side door open long enough for Bear to jump out, as well. They were both geared up, wearing their bullet proof vests, and their expressions grim. They'd had enough time to check the boathouse and the surrounding area and Harold figured their expressions could only mean two things. One, they found John and/or Billy dead or two, the found nothing at all. Although both scenarios were unfavorable Finch prayed for the later to be the case. It would at least allow for the possibility for John and Billy to still be alive and offer them the chance of saving them. All they had to do now was figure out where Connor had taken them. It sounded easy enough, but reality always proofed itself to be a lot more complicated. 

Harold put his messenger bag containing his laptop over his shoulder and took Bear's leash into his left hand. Limping towards the Detectives he offered them a curt nod of his head in greeting. “Detectives.” Carter returned his nod in kind, while Fusco kept on looking rather uncomfortable. “Thank you both for coming. I really appreciate your help.”

“Yeah, well, don't thank us just yet.” Carter and Fusco exchanged a quick glance, before she continued to fill Finch in on their findings. “Except for signs that someone's been camping out in the shack, we didn't find anything.” 

“We found this, though.” Fusco held out an object. Finch grabbed it realizing as he turned it in his hands that it was a dead cell phone, that looked like it had met with something fast and heavy leaving the display a cracked mess. That explained the sudden loss of John's GPS-signal.

Finch's finger traced the cracked line of the glass. “These things are not built very durable.” he said. “Good thing I sold the company before I had to cut my losses.”

Fusco gaped at Finch. “That's … that's an iPhone.”

Finch looked up from the phone, raising an eyebrow. “That's very perceptive of you, Detective.”

“But ...” Lionel shook his head. “Never mind. What are we gonna do now?”

Finch pocketed the broken phone and took the messenger bag from his shoulders. “Now, we are going to try to find out Mr. Connor's whereabouts, which hopefully will lead us right to Mr. Reese.” Ignoring the doubtful looks the Detectives exchanged Harold pulled his laptop out of the bag, placing it on the hood of the nearest car, all the while explaining to the two police officers what he'd been able to figure out so far. “Peter Connor works for Reynolds Mutual Trust and Bank, handling the bank's foreclosure paperwork. He's used his position at the bank to stall the foreclosure proceedings for several estates.” Harold pulled a small stack of paper out of his bag and handed it to Detective Carter. “Those are the addresses. I believe that he might be using at least on of those empty homes as a hideout for his ventures.”

Carter was leaving through pages, absently asking, “Which would be what exactly?”

Finch's expression morphed from slightly anxious to grave within a blink of the eyes. "I'm not entirely sure."

Carter looked up from the pages, exasperation written all over her face at Finch's hesitant confession. It was just typical of the two to get involved with something without having the slightest clue what that something actually was. 

"However, we do believe Peter Connor might be responsible for the disappearance of several homeless men over the last couple of weeks." Harold hurried to explain, though he was just figuring things out as he went along, as well.

“What?” Carter stared at Harold in disbelieve, while Fusco's face creased in confusion. “I'm not aware of any open cases regarding disappearing bums.” 

Finch turned his body to face Detective Fusco, a humorless smile on his face. “That's just it. As long as no bodies turn up, nobody would miss them.” He turned back to Carter pointing at the address list. “I believe he's been using those houses for hiding his victims and that's why I think we'll be able to find him and Mr. Reese at one of the addresses.” He paused briefly before adding hesitatingly. “And it's all I've got.”

Fusco looked at the list over Carter's shoulders. “So … you want us to check them all out?”

“Yes.” Harold nodded his head in confirmation. 

At that Carter's eyebrows shot up, disappearing within her banks. “Finch, there are like 30 addresses on this list. All over the city. There's no way we'll be able to check them all out without any help.”

“I'm running the van's license plate through the plate recognition software. Hopefully the plate will be picked up by a camera in the system to help narrow down the area. Until then … I arranged the addresses topographically, so I suggest you start at the top.”

Carter shook her head in exasperation. “Lemme guess, you hacked into the police system to run the plates?”

Finch just looked at her. “Does that really matter at this point?” he asked matter-of-factly. 

Carter sighed. “No, not really.” Returning to page one she addressed her partner. “Let's get started then.”


	5. Chapter 5

A highly uncomfortable sensation flooded back into John's mind making him miss the bliss of unconsciousness. The painful remnants of a fresh needle prick on his neck explained the reason for his rude awaking. Without his conscious consent John's eyes started to blink open resulting in his retinas being assaulted by bright light. Pain shot through his head and he forcefully pinched his eyes shut again. He tried to shake off the lethargy that had a tight grip on his thought process, but nausea causing his stomach to summersault made him decide that moving his head was not such a great idea at the moment. It took all his concentration and several deep breaths through his nose to keep what little he had in his stomach down. 

The hairs on the back of his neck were rising as John felt himself being watched. Steeling himself against the onslaught of harsh light that had greeted him before, he tried opening his eyes again. He blinked a few times, noting that the light had given over the job of causing him nausea and pain to the rapidly spinning room. It took a few moments for the room to settle down, when it did John realized that he was staring at his lap. 

He tried moving his arms and legs, but they wouldn't budge. He couldn't see what was hindering his legs, but his wrist were securely tied down to the arms of a wheelchair by zip ties that were biting into his flesh. His torso was tightly secured to the backrest of the chair by having had plastic film wrap wound around himself and the chair several times, rendering John practically immobile. 

The feeling of being watched had intensified while Reese had been busy checking out his range of motion, or lack thereof. Slowly raising his head to avoid having his vision spin like crazy again he absorbed as much information about his surroundings as he could. John had half expected to find himself in some kind of rundown warehouse or basement, but instead he'd woken up in a room, whose floor was covered with thick cream colored carpet and the walls were painted a bright yellow. To his left there was a large panorama window - blinds drawn - and as far as John could see the room didn't have any furniture nor any other decorations. The wheelchair John had been strapped to had been positioned in the middle of the empty room, facing an open fireplace giving John the last clue to be certain that he was currently held in the living room of the house, or any house, whose foreclosure proceeding had been handled by Reynolds Mutual Trust and Bank and more accurately by Peter Connor. 

Peter was lounging against the mantel, silently watching John. With his posture relaxed he looked like a man who couldn't harm a fly. John let his gaze rest only a moment on the other man. With hooded eyes he stared straight ahead at the fireplace, still able to feel Conner's ice cold eyes on him, seizing him up. 

John was mentally kicking himself. He'd clearly underestimated Conner, rushing into a situation he didn't know all the facts about, not thinking it through all the way. He really ought to stop doing that, because he was fairly certain one of these days his luck was going to run out. And ever since he'd taken a look at the impersonal and organized apartment he'd known deep down that something was phony about the easy-going persona Peter Conner tried to convey to the outside world. Now, feeling Connor's cold and calculating eyes on him he seriously doubted himself. He just should have known. 

Connor tilted his head to the side, a small smile playing with his lips. “There you are.”

John's eyes moved in the direction of the voice and back to the fireplace. If he hadn't already felt sick as a dog, the sickly sweet tone Connor used would have easily done the trick. 

“Thought you'd never wake up.” Conner pushed himself off the mantel and stepped closer to John. Bending down he looked closely at Reese. “I may have overdone it a tad with the sedative. Had to give you a little pick-me-up.” Connor's smile widened. “You are looking a little green around the gills there.” He chuckled and straightened up. 

John kept his gaze fixed on the fireplace, trying to swallow down a wave of nausea. The drug cocktail still roaming free in his bloodstream was playing havoc with his system. Besides the nausea, his heart was beating a mile a minute and sweat was trickling down his forehead, stinking his eyes. The edges of his visions blurred every once in a while, forcing him to close his eyes or otherwise loose his meager stomach contents. 

Connor continued to talk in that sickly sweet voice that made Reese's hairs on the back of his neck stand. “But I was afraid you'd miss the show and we wouldn't want that, would we?”

In all honesty John didn't really want to know what 'the show' was. He turned his most intimidating glare on Connor, his voice never more than a menacing whisper. “What did you do to them?” 

Connor raised an eyebrow, silently asking Reese to elaborate, though the smug smirk he wore betrayed that he already knew what John was getting at. John had taken part in enough interrogations – both as interrogator and as respondent – to know how the game was played. Connor was assessing him, trying to figure out how to push his buttons, looking for a weak spot in John's composure and, of course, John was going to do the same thing.

At the moment they were locked in a staring contest until Connor's smirk turned into a self-satisfied smile. “Oh, don't worry, you'll find out soon enough.”

Connor walked back to the mantel. Having Peter's back turned on him, John noticed his gun sticking out of the other man's waistband. Logging that information away for potential use later, John took advantage of being unobserved for a moment to close his eyes and silently take a deep breath. The drugs were still affecting him more than he wanted Connor to know and it took all of his willpower to keep his body from betraying him.

John opened his eyes again in time to observe Connor picking something up off the mantel, though he couldn't see what it was. As soon as Connor turned around and made his way back over to where he sat tied in the wheelchair John recognized Detective Still's badge and his wallet as the objects in Connor's hands. The man walked passed him, his steps muffled by the thick carpeting. He returned into John's field of vision only a moment later, dragging an old wooden chair behind him and placed it directly in Reese's line of sight. Sitting down, knees pressed together, he placed his hands holding the leather objects on his lap. He looked John directly in his hooded eyes, smiling that unnerving humorless smile of his.

“Let's talk about you, shall we?” Connor continued to size John up, tilting his head from side to side, eyes squinted in curiosity. “How about you start by telling me who you are?”

The ghost of a smile tugged at John's lips. If only he had a dime for every time someone had asked him that question. 

“Something funny?” Conner asked slightly pissed, his fake good-naturedness slipping. _Gotcha_ , John thought, widening his smile. 

“I hope you've got time”, he said, returning Connor's gaze daringly, “because whatever you're gonna do, I'm not gonna talk.”

“Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that.” Connor leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his thighs. All humor had left his face as he softly threatened, “By the time I get done with you, you'll have told me everything I want to know.”

"Yeah? I've had people promise me the same thing before." John's eyes grew hard, his blue orbs piercing into Connor's. "By the time I killed them they still didn't know more than before they started asking me questions."

Conner held John's stare unblinkingly, gauging the sincerity behind his words. Suddenly he broke out in roaring laughter. "That's cute." Conner barely managed to get the words out. 

Not for the first time Reese wished to have at least one arm free to move so he could satisfy his urge to wipe that unnerving smile off the other man's face. Instead he kept smiling himself like he had made a joke on purpose. 

The change in Connor's mood came so sudden that Reese had had no time to prepare. The fist connected with John's jaw with such force that his head snapped back, stars exploding in his vision. He tasted blood in his mouth as his head fell forward. Another punch to his face sent his head flying sideways, the sound of bones crunching echoing in John's head. His stomach revolted at the taste of blood and Reese had a hard time calming it down. Blood poured freely from his nose and split lip, dripping down John's chin and turning the front of his white shirt into a bloody mess. 

Connor was standing behind John now, grabbing a fistful of John's hair and brutally pulling his head back, forcing a painful grunt out of John. Connor kept pulling at Reese's hair, stretching the muscles in his neck to the limit. He got close to John's face, his bad breath hot on his cheeks.

"You will tell me what I want to know" he seethed, drops of spittle flying from his mouth, managing to pull even harder on John's hair. "This is just the beginning."

John pulled his lips back in a sneer, exposing his bloody teeth. "Do. Your. Worst." He literally spat the words, earning him a vicious punch to his kidney, the pain stealing his breath away. Connor let go of John's head, giving it a hard shove and only the restraints tying John to the chair kept him from keeling over. 

John hung his head, trying hard to breathe through the pain. He had his eyes shut tightly, knowing that if he opened them the room would try its best at impersonating a Merry-Go-Round again. 

The creaking of wood told John that Connor had sat back down in front of him again. Forcing his head up, John defiantly looked at Connor, whose unnerving smile was back in place. "Let's try this again, shall we?" he said politely. "Who are you and how did you find me?" 

"I'm just a guy who was out for a walk in the park."

"Now see, somehow I don't believe you." Connor bent forward picking up the badge and wallet he'd dropped to the floor prior to his violent outburst. "For one, there is this." He held up the golden shield of an NYPD Detective. "I have to admit when I first pulled this out of your coat pocket I almost panicked, but the name on this badge doesn't match with the name on your drivers license." To demonstrate the accuracy of his statement Conner pulled out John's fake license holding it up for John to see himself. "So", he flipped the card around to read the name printed on it. " _John_ , I really don't think you are a cop."

John raised an eyebrow like he wanted to ask how the man had come to that ingenious conclusion. Connor smiled coldly at him. “Cops usually travel in packs. You, on the other hand, were following me all by yourself.”

Something in John's expression must have given away his surprise, since Peter's face lit up with triumph. “Yeah, I was quite aware of you watching me.” He winked at John, who again wished to have an arm free to move. “I could practically feel your eyes drilling into the back of my head on the subway today.”

John's eyebrows creased in confusion. So far he'd learned enough to thoroughly revise the man's psychological profile. That the friendly and easy going demeanor had only been a well played act had been made abundantly clear by him dragging an unconscious man from a shed and sticking a needle in John's leg. Now, John had learned that Connor was indeed smart and obviously very observant, but also profusely arrogant and absolutely full of himself. Even though Connor had known he was being watched he still went ahead with the kidnapping, possibly risking being caught in the act, all on the assumption that he would be able to tell if he was followed by the police or not. 

Once more, John mentally chastised himself for having thrown caution to the wind. He could practically hear Carter's voice in his mind telling him that he could have just called the police. Now, John's only hope was that due to his over-confidence Connor was bound to make a mistake and when he did John was going to happily exploit it. Until then he'd have to stall the lunatic from killing him as best as he could. John knew he could take a beating, but something told him, that Connor was the type gifted with creativity when it came to inflicting pain and suffering.

John studied Connor as he sat in front of him, practically gloating. He realized that that was exactly what Connor wanted to do. Like every other self-absorbed egomaniac he wanted to boast about his superior intellect, proofing to John how much smarter he was. Sensing a chance to buy time by getting Connor to talk, John asked, "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I can", replied Connor like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "And because I want to." Peter got up from the chair, walking behind it and leaning on the backrest, smiling at John. "I know what you are trying to do, John, and you are wasting your time."

John tried to look like he didn't know what Connor was talking about, but soon realized that it didn't really matter. Instead he just shrugged and went back to seemingly ignoring the other man. 

"Who are you, John?" Connor asked again. "How did you figure me out?" 

Not getting the answers to these question must be driving Connor nuts, John thought. He struck John like the kind of guy who always needed to be the smartest man in the room, the man in control. John knew he could do the question and not answering thing for a very long time, but he doubted Connor was going to be as patient, having lost his temper once already.

"Again. Who are you? How did you figure me out?" Connor's tone was losing his fake geniality and John couldn't help it as an insolent smile crept across his face, causing his split lip to sting in pain. Apparently Connor was loosing his patience faster than John would have thought. Completely dropping his fake geniality, Connor violently shoved the chair aside, crashing it into the living room walls. "WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?" he screamed, getting right into John's face. However, John, who still wasn't looking at him, didn't even blink. 

Connor stepped back and reaching behind himself he pulled John's gun from out of his pant's waistband. He leveled the barrel right at John's forehead, cocking the weapon. John's blue eyes moved upwards looking menacingly from underneath his eyebrows passed the gun and directly at Connor. "Do you really think you are the first person to ever point a gun at my face, Peter?" 

Peter's left eyebrow twitched, the only warning John got, before he was struck on the side of his head with the handle of his own gun, causing him to see stars once more. When his vision cleared again, he found Connor crouching in front of him and regarding him with a thoughtful expression. The gun he held loosely in his grip. "You know, John", he said slowly. "You strike me like a man who sticks to his principles. So, if you say you won't talk, no matter what I do to you, then I believe you."

John really didn't like where this was going. Connor's mood swings and the affects of the drugs made it difficult for him to anticipate the man's actions and it took an almost physical effort on his part not to let his eyes wander towards his gun, but keep them steady on Connor instead, and paying attention to what he was saying. "I've been thinking about how we met. Officially. How you rode in to rescue that poor excuse of a human being with no regards to your own safety."

Connor got up from his crouching position in front of John and moved back towards the mantel, depositing the gun, badge and wallet. Turning around he practically sauntered back over walking around the wheelchair. Disengaging the breaks he swiveled John around and pushed him towards an archway at the other end of the room. Opaque plastic sheeting serving as a curtain prevented John from seeing past the living room. Connor bent forward while pushing the chair towards the plastic curtain. "I think there's something you should see." he whispered next to John's ear, his breath uncomfortably tickling on the back of his neck.

Oh, Reese so did not like where this was going.


	6. Chapter 6

John's eyes widened as he was pushed through the curtain into the next room. Everything was covered in plastic. The walls, the floor ... everything. In the middle of the room stood a sturdy looking foldable table and lying on top of it, tied securely down by multiple layers of plastic, lay the man Connor had dragged from the old boathouse. As far as John could tell Billy had been undressed and gagged. Even his head was wrapped to the table by the clear plastic, leaving only his eyes free to move. They rolled to their right in their sockets, bloodshot and terrified. They were looking right at John, silently begging for help.

Connor stopped pushing the chair and set the breaks. He walked around and moved over to stand in the middle of the room beside the table. "Neat, isn't it?" He spread his arms as if he was show-casing the place for a prospecting buyer. "I saw this done on TV, can you believe it? All these years I wasted time having to clean up after myself when all it took was a little creativity with plastic."

Wait. Did he just say _years_? John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Exactly how long had Conner been stalking around the city kidnapping and most likely killing people at random? Why in the Hell had the machine not spat out Connor’s number earlier?

John just stared at him, the taught muscles in his neck and face betraying his inner fury. By letting him live and not making his get-away while he still could, Connor was making a huge mistake. As soon as he found a way out of that God damned chair John would make sure that Connor would see the errors of his judgment. 

Patting the helpless Billy on the head, Connor was basking in the moment and quite enjoying John's futile attempts at staring him to death. "And I found the perfect prey. Tell me, John, who notices a bum disappearing every once in a while, huh? Who would miss them?"

John continued to glower at Connor, with no intention of answering any of his questions. But apparently Connor didn't really mind. 

"Exactly! No one."

Connor walked back over to Reese, squatting down in front of him to be at eye-level. "Except for you. How did you figure me out? What gave me away?"

John pulled his lips back in a bloody grin. "It's killing you not to know, isn't it? Not knowing what you did wrong." He casually turned his head to the side, spitting blood to the plastic covered floor. "I'm not gonna tell you." 

Sending a defying glance at Connor John was pleased to see that the twitch in Connor's eyebrow was back. A sure tell that the other man was boiling inside. John didn't care if Connor was going to knock him around some more. As long as he could keep the psycho's attention on him, the man tied down on the table was save ands John knew that he could take whatever Connor was going to throw at him, but he wasn't so sure about Billy. Hell, he wasn't even sure if he could take watching Connor 'work' on the helpless man.

Connor pulled himself together with clear effort and John smirked at him, though it froze on his lips as Connor turned around to Billy, saying, "How about we ask Billy here what he thinks I did that gave me away."

Billy, who so far had been smart enough to stay quiet began to thrash around as much as possible, trying to dislodge the plastic binding him to the table. Connor walked around the table and pushed a metal side-table into John's line of sight. On it lay neatly organized by size a respectable collection of knives every butcher would have been jealous of. He picked up a medium sized knife, turning it from side to side – the light of the two construction lamps illuminating the room reflecting on its smooth metallic surface - making sure both John and Billy were able to see it. Billy's pleas were muffled and turned unintelligible by the gag stuffed in his mouth as his efforts of breaking free intensified. John strained against his bindings, too, the zip-ties cutting into the raw flesh at his wrist making them slick with his blood, but still they wouldn't budge. He watched helplessly as Connor moved to Billy's head and without hesitation or warning cut of his right ear. 

Billy's back arched off the table, screaming out his lungs against the gag in his mouth. Tears were streaming down his face, mixing with the blood pouring from where his ear used to be.

Connor tossed the ear carelessly to the floor at John's feet. "Now, John, you can give me the evil eye as long as you want, but it's totally up to you how many body parts our poor friend here will have to lose."

John felt sick, and not just because of the drugs anymore. "You'll kill him anyway."

"True. But how much he suffers is up to you." Connor carefully wiped off the blood from the knife with a paper towel and then returned it to its designated place on the side-table. He leaned on the foldable table, towering over the tied up man and glowered at John as he repeated his questions. "Who are you? How did you figure me out?"

Reese could feel Billy's pleading stare on himself and he closed his eyes. Even if he told Conner what he wanted to know he would never believe him. Besides, John was certain that as soon as Connor had his questions answered both he and Billy would be dead. Stealing himself for what was to come, John opened his eyes and forced himself to look impassively at Connor. He flinched at the sound of the bones of one of Billy's left fingers snapping and his howling scream of pain. Anger flared within John's entire being. Anger at Connor but mostly at himself for being so utterly useless. For being the reason for the other man's pain and suffering.

Within minutes Connor had managed to turn a human being into a bloody, sobbing mess and he was obviously enjoying every second of it. John forced himself to watch Connor, never taking his eyes of the man while he slowly and deliberately broke one bone after another and used his knives to cover Billy in shallow, painful cuts, repeating the questions over and over again. 

John didn't know how long the muffled screams and cries went on, tearing at him. Listening to Billy suffer and not being able to do anything to stop it was worse than being tortured himself. 

Suddenly, Peter checked his watch with an expression of displeasure on his face. He looked at John. "I have to admit, I underestimated you, John. But as much as I would love to continue our little game", he directed his attention to the side-table holding his tools and picked out a large knife before continuing to speak, turning to lean over Billy. "But I'm afraid our time together will have to be cut short. I've got to keep my appointment with my new identity. So, I guess ..." Disgust and anger were battling for dominance over Connor's face. "You win."

Without further ado Connor raised the knife and in one fluid motion plunged it to the hilt into Billy's chest. He closed his eyes and exhaled in pleasure as the body twitched for the last time, the imaginary echoes of Billy's dying scream bouncing around in the plastic covered room.

Closing his eyes as well John turned his head away. He was sick to his stomach and not only because of the remnants of the drugs still in his system but because on some level – even though he just witnessed a man being killed right in front of him - he was glad that it was finally over. He opened his eyes again, directing a steely glare in the direction of Connor's ecstatic voice. "Aaaah, that's always the best part, isn't it?"

Connor pulled out the knife with a disgusting wet sucking noise. Cleaning it again like the ones before he placed it back on his tool table picking yet again another, smaller knife. He proceeded to cut through the plastic that had kept Billy's body in place. 

"You know, normally I wouldn't leave such a mess behind, but you showing up to crash the party are forcing me to rush things a little along." He gave the body a violent shove, rolling it unceremoniously off the table. “It really is a pity. I had a sweet thing going here.” Turning around he leaned with his back on the table, propping himself up on his elbows regarding John with a smirk. "Your turn."

Walking over to his tool table, Connor retrieved a syringe and put it in his pant's back pocket. John glared at him as he made his way over. He once again crouched in front of John and held up the small knife he had used to cut Billy free. Moving it slowly towards John's throat he kept a close watch for any reaction from the tied up man, smiling as John didn't flinch at all. With his other hand he grabbed a hold of the collar of John's shirt and in one swift movement he cut off one of the buttons at John's neck. He held up the white, pearly object for John to see. "A little keepsake to remember you by."

John's eyes widened in realization. He remembered the small wooden chest he'd found in Connor's apartment filled with dozens, if not hundreds of buttons. Back then they seemed such an inconspicuous thing to collect, but now the scope of meaning behind Peter's collection took his breath away. 

Connor got up, placing his precious button in his pocket. He walked around the wheelchair to stand behind John. Bending down, he practically purred in John's ear. "Now, this is going to sting a little. It won't knock you out, just turn you compliable. I want you to be awake for this."

John's only reaction to the needle breaking his skin was a quick flutter of his eyelids. Summoning all his strength and implementing all of his training he braced himself for the effects of the drug. Figuring this was going to be his last chance of getting out of there alive he needed to stay alert as long as he could.

The drug acted fast. Within seconds all John could hear was the rushing of his blood through his ears and his vision began to blur. Playing the part of being drugged out of his mind – which wasn't that farfetched after all - John let his head drop to rest his chin on his chest, his entire body weight solely being supported by the plastic wrap around his torso. Connor moved to crouch in front of him, slapping John's cheek a couple of times to gauge the degree of his inebriation. Seemingly satisfied he proceeded to cut away at John's bindings, beginning with the plastic around his legs and moving upward. Reese toppled forward as soon as Connor had cut off the plastic around his torso. Connor caught him and put his arms underneath John's armpits, interlocking his fingers on John's back, easily lifting his dead weight off the chair. 

John waited until Connor was in the process of straightening up to make his move. Flexing his muscles he surprised the other man by suddenly taking all the weight off of him and throwing him off balance. Using the moment of surprise he ploughed his forehead into Connor's face, feeling as the man's nasal bone gave way with a satisfying crunch. 

Howling in pain, Connor let go of John, pushing him away, his hands shooting up to his face to cup his bleeding nose. John stumbled backwards, disoriented by the drug and the force of the blow to Connor's face. He completely lost his balance as he knocked into the wheelchair. Although he tried to grab at it to steady himself, he ended up toppling the chair over and crashing to the floor with it. He lay there stunned trying to pull himself together. Flopping himself onto his stomach he tried to get his arms underneath his body and push himself up off the floor again, but his movements were sluggish and the world had decided to turn into the hated Merry-Go-Round again. By slowly shaking his head from side to side John made an effort to clear his mind. 

Connor held his hands in front of his face, shocked by the blood that covered them. There was no sign of his unnerving smile anymore, instead his features were distorted in livid rage. "You son of a bitch!" he screamed, lunging forward and viciously kicking the still downed Reese in his stomach. The force of the kick flipped John on his back, leaving him gasping for air. Connor made for another kick at John's unprotected side, but John quickly rolled out from under the kick, catching Connor's leg in mid-air. He twisted the leg sideways, eliciting another painful scream from the man as Peter lost his balance crashing to the ground beside John.

Reese threw himself at Connor, his movements lacking their normal grace and precision. Connor fended off John's attack by raising his leg and ramming his knee in John's stomach. He grabbed Reese by his shoulders and using his momentum threw John over himself, making him fly into the foldable table. It collapsed at the impact, breaking apart and raining down on John, who barely managed to raise his arms to protect his head. 

The adrenalin flowing through his system had been helping to keep the effects of the drugs at bay, but John knew that it wouldn't last. He had to end this fight quickly, because soon he wouldn't be coherent enough to even realize if he lost or not.

Disentangling himself of the table's remnants John once more tried to get off the floor. He'd made it to his knees when he was tackled back down by Connor, who managed to straddle him, pinning him to the floor. Enraged Connor rained one vicious blow after another on John's face, torso and stomach, but instead of trying to protect himself John reached for Connor's throat. Locking his hands in a death grip around the man's neck John squeezed with all the strength he had left. This stopped the onslaught of blows to John's body as Connor reached for the hands around his neck, pulling at them, trying to loosen up John's hold.

Taking advantage of Connor's momentary distraction John managed to flip them both around with him ending up on top of Connor and using his body weight to add even further pressure on the man's neck. Connor's eyes started to bulge and his face turned a bright red. Giving up on trying to dislodge John's fingers he began hitting John in his stomach and side again, trying to go for his kidneys, but John's hold never loosened up. 

John looked impassively into Connor's wide eyes and for the first time he could see emotion in them. Fear was clouding the man's icy blues and the blows to his side weakened foreboding a blessed end of the battle. Desperate for anything that could get him out of John's grip Connor's hands groped the floor. His left hand came upon the knife he'd used to cut John free of the chair, having it dropped during John's sudden attack. His fingers clasped around the hilt of the knife and using the last of his strength he rammed it into John's side. 

Surprised by the pain John grunted and momentarily let off the pressure on Connor's neck. A spark of victory ignited in Connor's eyes, but it only served for John to strengthening his resolve to end it. Putting all he had left into it, his muscles trembling from the strain, John continued to squeeze even as finally every sign of life had left Connor's body. 

Connor's face in John's sight began to blur and he tried to clear his vision by blinking rapidly. Finally, he let go of the man's neck. Blood was dripping from his nose and the cuts on his face onto Connor's, mixing with the man's own blood. John straightened and breathing heavily he looked down at himself, regarding the hilt of the knife that stuck in his right side. Blood from the puncture wound was already turning the white of his shirt crimson, forming yet another bloodstain. He grasped the knife with his right hand, falling forward with a yell of pain, supporting himself on his trembling left arm as he yanked it out. He dropped the knife beside himself, since he needed his second arm to keep himself from collapsing onto the dead man. With eyes closed and breathing heavily he fought against the nausea and dizziness that were compelling him to submit to the darkness. 

But he could not give in. Not yet. He pushed himself up off the body, noting with relief that the blade of the knife was only about two inches long. Judging by the flat angle the knife had stuck out of his side he was pretty sure - well, as sure as his befuddled mind could be - that, though painful, no vital organs should have been injured, but he'd worry about that later.

John stumbled forward, pressing his hand to his bleeding side. He went through the plastic curtain into the living room, and staggering like a drunk he had to support himself along the wall. Reaching the mantel he collected his badge, wallet and gun with shaking hands, having to prop himself up on the wooden sill. Next, he needed to find a phone to call ... someone. The remaining lucid part of his brain knew, that he probably should be getting worried about not remembering, but the need to leave this place was overwhelming. 

Running only on fumes and stubborn determination John found his way outside into the cold winter night. He staggered along the deserted sidewalk, with the only clear thing on his otherwise disoriented and befuddled mind that - no matter what - he could not give in.


	7. Chapter 7

Harold Finch was getting restless. It had been over four hours since he had last had contact with Mr. Reese and he was starting to believe that their efforts in finding him were ridiculously futile. So far the Detectives had managed to clear three of the houses on their list, finding not a single piece of evidence of Peter Connor ever having set foot inside. 

Sitting inside his car, while the two Detectives were busy checking out the fourth address on the list, he mentally urged the plate recognition software to finally find a match to help narrow down their search. Bear sat in the rear of the car, giving off a soft whine every once in a while. The dog had picked up on Harold's anxiety, becoming equally restless as his master. At every whine of Bear Harold would absentmindedly try to reassure the dog, stating that they were going to find Mr. Reese. It was slowly turning into a mantra.

Finch jumped slightly as his laptop gave off a soft beep. Focusing his attention on the computer he muttered an excited "Finally!" as his fingers flew over the keyboard with record speed. Comparing the location of the plate sighting with the list of addresses he managed to narrow it down to two addresses within his search parameters and Harold sighed in relief. “We are back in the game.”

Finch pulled out his cell phone to call off the latest search, convinced that they were at the wrong address. He knew that there was still the possibility of Connor having just passed through the neighborhood on the way to his real hideout, but an approximate location was a lot more to go on and he was sure that they were finally not stabbing in the dark anymore, but actually drawing close to Connor's and therefore Mr. Reese's location. Hoping to get there in time to save his employee and the unfortunate soul that Connor had practically kidnapped in front of his eyes Harold picked one of the two addresses - relying solely on his luck - and told the Detectives to meet him there.

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Harold arrived at the address first, finding the house looking rather desolate, with all blinds drawn and the small front yard in utter disarray. Finch couldn't take waiting around for another minute and though the Detectives arrived only shortly after, he had already gotten out of his car and with Bear on the leash was about to go investigate the house himself.

Carter jumped out of the vehicle before Lionel had managed to put the gear into Park. “Woah, where the Hell do you think you are going?” She grabbed a hold of Harold's arm. Harold stiffly turned with his entire body to face her, not caring how much of her personal space he invaded.

“We are running out of time, Detective!” The anger in his voice surprised even Finch himself, noting that Carter was slightly taken aback by his outburst, her face creasing in disapproval.

“That's no reason to get careless.”

“I'm sorry.” Harold briefly inclined his head in way of apology before seeking out the Detective's eyes. “You are right, of course.”

Carter smiled reassuringly at him and gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “It's ok. I understand.”

She let go of his arm, giving him the stern order to stay put, eyeing him until he obediently nodded his head in acquiescence. Satisfied that she wouldn't have to worry about Finch doing something incredibly stupid Carter faced her partner. “C'mon, Fusco. Let's do this.”

Simultaneously pulling out their guns, Carter and Fusco carefully headed into the direction of the house, disappearing into the darkness.

Bear was restless at Harold's side. His whine turned into soft barks as he stared off into the darkness, pulling as much on his leash as he could without leaving his ordered sitting position. 

“Ssh, Bear.” Finch said absentmindedly. Still, the dog wouldn't settle down, continuing his whining. Harold looked down at the dog, “Bear, stilte!” he said sharply at which Bear ceased the barking and pulling on the leash. Satisfied Harold moved his attention back on the house anxiously waiting on word from the Detectives, while Bear sat quietly beside him, staring off along the darkened road.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Carter and Fusco approached the house carefully. From what they could make out in the darkness it had a slightly more run down vibe to it than the other houses in the neighborhood, giving evidence to the fact that no one had lived there for a while. They cautiously circled the house, staying close to the walls and their shadows. Every single blind of the one storey building had been drawn making it impossible to take a look inside. The only other exit besides the front door had been hastily nailed shut with a few wooden blanks, making it look like someone was trying to keep something inside instead of out. The garage door wouldn't budge either, which only left the front door. 

They climbed the few steps to the front door in single file with Fusco in the lead. He reached for the door knob and was actually surprised to find it unlocked. He shot Carter a look over his shoulder, silently asking her if she was ready. Cater nodded in assent and Fusco forcefully swung open the door. Rushing through the frame he immediately swung his gun from right to left clearing the entrance area of any threat. Carter went right, covering her partner's back. She opened the door to the right, kicking it open the rest of the way, finding herself in the dark and empty kitchen. She switched on her flashlight and proceeded into the room, while Fusco stood guard in the hallway. She made her way over to the door leading to the garage. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of a dark van parked within the garage walls, hidden from prying eyes. After checking to make sure the vehicle was empty she returned to meet back up with Fusco at the front door. Before she could inform him about her find, Fusco indicated with a jerk of his head that he'd found something interesting as well.

He let the beam of his flashlight wander along the hallway walls illuminating smeared bloody hand prints.   
The hand prints suddenly stopped at the second door to the left and the soft glow of light that shone from underneath that door decided for them which room they'd inspect next.

Carter took up position at the right side of the door, gun pointing upwards, while Fusco had his back to the door reaching for the knob. He stopped before he turned the knob, once more sharing a look with Carter, who nodded for him to go ahead.

Mirroring their movements from before, Fusco followed the door to the left as it swung open, while Carter covered his back on the right. They stood in the empty living room illuminated by a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling socket.

Fusco's eyes followed the same blood smears along the wall to his left until they came upon an archway covered with plastic curtains. He got a sinking feeling to his stomach. The blood and the silence throughout the house didn't bode well for Wonderboy. Together they silently crept over the thick carpet towards the curtained off area. 

Carter shot Fusco another look. Pearls of sweat had formed on her partner's forehead, some having already lost the battle with gravity, trailing a wet path down the side of his face and disappearing inside the collar of his shirt. The apprehension on his face must have certainly been mirrored on her own. Like a well oiled machine they both took up their respective positions on each side of the archway. Fusco reached forward, silently mouthing a count to three. Upon reaching the last number he pulled the curtain aside allowing Carter an entrance to the other room beyond, following close behind.

They were both momentarily blinded by the light of two construction site lamps, that brightly illuminated the plastic covered room. Blinking hard Carter tried to get her eyes accustomed to the light. 

“Shit.” exclaimed Fusco disbelievingly and as she was finally able to take in the room and its content herself, Carter's eyes widened in shock and she subconsciously lowered her gun.

“Oh. My. God.”

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Harold had been listening in via the microphone of Detective Carter's cell as the Detectives were making their way through the house in front of him. Actually, there wasn't much to hear except their heavy breathing as adrenalin was surely circulating through their bloodstreams, causing their hearts to beat a mile a minute. Just as his own heart was. The occasional softly spoken “Clear” was Harold's sole indicator of their process in checking out the various rooms of the house. He had no idea how many rooms there were, but felt himself unable to move to go fetch his laptop and start a search for the blueprints. He probably should have done that before sending the Detectives in there, literally in the dark.

Something that sounded like plastic rustling drew his mind back to the Detectives. A few seconds later Harold caught his breath, tightly gripping Bear's leash with his hands, as his heart dropped into his stomach. The double exclamation of shock from both Detectives only served for his mind to come up with the worst.

Harold desperately wanted to call them and demand to know what the Hell was going on. But before he knew that the house was secure he didn't want to risk distracting or, even worse, alerting whoever may still be in the house with them of their presence. So, he waited while the seconds stretched into hours, checking his cell constantly. When it finally rang he had his thumb already poised for answering the call.

“Yes, Detective?”

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It took Carter's brain a few seconds to actually comprehend the images her eyes were sending its way. The room was a complete mess and in the middle of it all lay two bodies. One she easily identified as Peter Connor, lying on his back with his eyes staring forever unseeing at the ceiling above. The telltale signs of strangulation evident by the marks around his neck and the red coronas of his eyes. 

The other body had its back towards the Detectives and was covered by the debris of what looked like was once some kind of table. For a brief moment she feared that they had found John, but the unruly mop of longish brown hair covering the head ruled out her first assumption. 

“I think we've found Billy.”

Fusco's voice startled her. She tried to hide it by nodding her head in agreement at her partner's statement. “And Connor.” she added, inclining her head in the direction of the body. 

Fusco stepped around the fallen over wheelchair, remnants of plastic still wrapped around its back- and footrest, testifying to someone having once been tide to the chair. He'd bet a month's salary that it hadn't been Connor. He crouched down beside the body, examining the damage more closely. 

“Wonderboy's doing?” he asked, looking up at his partner.

“I'd say so.” Carter looked around the plastic covered room, understanding of its purpose dawning on her, and not for the first time that night she wondered what the Hell John had gotten mixed up in. “This is a kill-room.”

Fusco mimicked her actions while straightening up again. “Yeah”, he agreed. He moved over to the second body, crouching again to check if there were still signs of life in the bloody mess in front of him. Fusco was disgusted by what little he could see of what had been done to the man without disturbing the scene too much, and though he thought John Reese capable of many things, this ... devastation of a human body was definitely not among the list. He looked up at his partner, answering her questioning look by grimly shaking his head. 

Carter exhaled the breath she'd been holding. Two dead, one missing. Whatever happened in that room they'd have to sort it out later. “Let's go and clear the rest of the house, before calling this in.”

They proceeded to check out the remaining rooms of the house, but found no sign of someone having stepped a single foot inside any of them in weeks. Satisfied that no one else living was inside the building Carter pulled out her phone. Her call was answered by Finch's matter-of-fact voice on the first ring.

“Yes, Detective?”

“John's not here.”

Silence followed her statement and Carter was sure that the gears in the man's head were running in overdrive, processing the new information. 

“And Connor?” he finally asked.

“Dead. And so is Billy.”

“I see.” Though Finch didn't sound like he actually did. Carter stood in the hallway, regarding the bloody prints on the wall. She thought back to what she had seen in the kill-room. The memory of a bloody knife and empty syringes carelessly discarded on the floor added to bloodstains on the walls painted a very ugly picture. Swallowing down a lump in her throat, she voiced her suspicions. “I think John may have been drugged and injured.” She heard Finch drawing in a breath. “And he may be out wandering the streets.” Again, her statement was followed by silence. 

She waited a few seconds for the man to suggest how they should proceed, like he usually did in these situations, but his complete non-reaction started to worry her. “Finch?”

“I've got to go.” 

Perplexed at the sudden urgency in Finch's voice, Carter stared dumbly at her phone. Harold Finch had just hung up on her.


	8. Chapter 8

Finch had closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as Detective Carter informed him that there had been evidence of Mr. Reese having been drugged and injured. The image of John stumbling around the darkness, weak and confused was forcing itself to the forefront of his mind. 

Suddenly his eyes snapped open, as something in his brain clicked. He looked down at Bear, who was still staring into the darkness. Could it be that the Malinois had been trying to tell him something all along?

He was startled by Carter calling out his name. “I've got to go.” he told her, tapping his ear-piece to end the call.

“Bear.” He called out softly to catch the dog's attention. The animal's head swiveled around and upwards, his brown eyes looking straight at him. “Where's John?” At the mention of his master's name Bear emitted a heart-wrenching whine. 

“Go!”

The dog didn't need to be told twice. Jumping up, Bear literally dragged Finch after him as he was finally allowed to follow the scent of his master mixed with blood, that had been filling his sensitive nose ever since he'd gotten his first sniff of the night air and driving him nearly crazy. 

Harold kept a tight hold of the leash, even though Bear was nearly choking on his collar, afraid if he let it slip Bear would disappear into the darkness and if that happened he'd never be able to catch up. 

Finch was dragged along by Bear for a couple of hundred yards. They were coming up to a car parked at the side of the road. In the meager light provided by one of the rare streetlights a couple of yards down the road Harold was able to make out what looked like a shoe sticking out from underneath the front of the car. Drawing closer to the vehicle he realized that the dark splotches of paint he'd assumed were part of a crappy paint job were actually hand-prints left there by someone in blood. 

Ordering Bear to sit and stay, which the dog only reluctantly obeyed, Harold slowly limped around the hood, finding John Reese lying sprawled face down on the street in front of the vehicle, his strength probably having given out after he'd lost the support of the car.

Harold softly called Mr. Reese's name, waiting for a reaction, a groan … anything, but John's form remained still. He tried it again, with more urgency. “John?” Still, no reaction.

He stiffly got down on his knees in front of John, not caring what the rough asphalt might be doing to his tailored slacks. He put his right hand underneath Reese's shoulder and gently turned him until he was lying on his right side. John felt alarmingly cold underneath Harold's touch, and Finch dearly hoped that the low body temperature was only due to the fact that Reese was merely wearing his dress pants and shirt outside in the cold. 

“Oh God.” Exhaled Harold in dismay as he took in Reese's battered face. John's nose, split lip and a nasty cut on the side of his head were still freely oozing blood. Cuts and bruises marred his features and his right eye was almost swollen shut. Further inspection of Reese's body revealed a dark and slowly growing bloodstain on his right lower abdomen and Finch started to feel slightly ill.

With a shaking hand he haltingly reached for John's neck. Placing two fingers on John's carotid artery he sighed in relief at finding a strong, yet slightly erratic pulse.   
Harold's relief quickly changed into surprise and then shock as John's only visible eye snapped open widely. His left arm shot forward, the fingers of his hand clasping tightly around Harold's throat.

Seeing absolutely no recognition in John's bloodshot and dilated eye Harold desperately tugged at the vise-like grip around his neck. He tried to speak but was only able to produce croaking sounds. 

Harold couldn't breathe and panic began to set in. His attempts at dislodging John's fingers became more feeble with each second passing, his vision getting blurry around the edges. He could barely hear a thing over the din of blood rushing through his ears. Bear's barking sounded like it was miles away.

The dog, confused by the actions of his masters, had left his ordered position barking in agitation, torn between attacking and standing down.  
John just minutely moved his head in the direction of the dog, but Harold felt a slight decrease of pressure around his throat, though not nearly enough for him to draw in sufficient air. Reese squeezed his eyelids together before rapidly blinking a couple of times. As John made eye contact with Harold recognition zapped through his features. The pressure around Harold's neck thankfully let off and he was finally able to breathe again.

Finch fell sideways, catching himself from landing face down on the street just in time. A coughing fit took his breath away again, causing him to see stars. Practically choking on the last couple of coughs, Finch fought hard to finally be able to fill his starving lungs again.

He didn't know how long it took for him to get his breathing somewhat back under control, but when he finally succeeded he looked up to find Reese watching him with horrified eyes. Finch held up a hand in a gesture of reassurance. “I'm ok.” At least that was what he'd tried to say. It ended up as a pitiful croak followed by a new coughing fit. He moved a hand to gingerly probe his throat. Even swallowing hurt.

“Harold?” Reese was breathing hard like he'd just run a marathon and his body was trembling. His soft voice had a quiver to it, that Harold would have never thought to ever hear from his usually stoic partner.

“I'm ok.” This time the words were intelligible enough.

“I'm sorry, Harold. I ...” John was reaching for him now, with the same hand that not minutes ago had been trying to squeeze the life out of him. Harold hesitated, but the utter despair in the other man's features made the decision for him.

Clasping his hand around Reese's forearm he made an effort to right himself. Making sure that John was looking at him he rasped, “C'mon John. Let's get you to a doctor.”  
However, he had no idea how he was going to get Reese on his feet by himself. It certainly didn't look like the man had enough strength left to stand, less to walk. John had practically deflated right in front of Harold, slumping down after having spent his last resources. 

Finch was alerted to people approaching by footsteps drawing close. Bending his entire body sideways to be able to see passed the car Harold was relieved to find the familiar figures of Detective Carter and Fusco approaching. Not wanting to aggravate his throat any more he waved for their attention. 

“Finch!” Carter angrily hissed at him. “What the Hell do you think you are doing by running off into the night?”

Not feeling the need to explain himself, Finch merely stated, “I found Mr. Reese.”

Carter's anger evaporated at Finch's words and both Fusco and her rushed over to see how badly John was hurt. She noted that Reese, though awake, was about to collapse backwards from his half sitting position and most likely would have pulled Finch right along with him if she and Fusco hadn't stepped in.

“Whoa buddy.” Fusco said as he caught Reese before he could keel over. Carter helped Finch to his feet, who bent down giving Bear a loving pet. In the dim light Carter could see angry red marks on the man's neck and realized that he'd only been whispering.

“Finch, what happened to your throat?”

He touched his neck self-consciously, not meeting her eyes. “A misunderstanding.” He turned his body completely away from her looking down at John and Detective Fusco. “Would you please help me get John back to the car?”

Judging by John's condition, who didn't look like he even noticed what was going on around him anymore, Carter figured there was no way that he would be able to walk the distance back to the cars. And she highly doubted that dragging him all the way back there would be beneficial to his health. 

"Wait here, I'll go get the car." If the situation hadn't been that tense Finch's 'why-didn't-I-think-of-that' look would almost have been funny. Instead she had Finch toss her the keys, spun around and sprinted back to where they had left the cars.

When she returned with the car, Fusco and Finch had somehow managed to get Reese back on his feet. Supported by one man on each side of him, his arms thrown over their shoulders, Reese hung like a sack of potatoes between them and with his head hanging down on his chest it didn't look like he was supporting himself at all. 

In the beam of the car's headlights the dark bloodstain on Reese's shirt stood in stark contrast to the white of the fabric. Before she'd only seen that he'd been beaten to a pulp, but hadn't noticed the blood on his shirt. She stopped the car right along with the three men and got out immediately. Going around the front of the car she opened the passenger rear door and helped fold Reese into the backseat, having an eerie sense of Déjà vu. Next, she opened the passenger front door to let Bear jump onto the seat. 

Finch was already limping around to the driver side, throwing them a glance across the car roof. “I take it you can take care of the situation at the house?”

He spoke so softly that Carter had to strain her ears to be able to hear what Finch was saying. Even though she had no idea what the situation back at the house was exactly - except that it looked like a royal mess - or what it would entail, Carter nodded her head in affirmation. “Yeah.”

“Good. I'll be in touch.” Finch said before disappearing behind the driver wheel and sped off, leaving Fusco and Carter to watch the taillights disappear around the next corner. 

“And who's stuck dealing with their mess again?” groused Fusco beside her. Carter just sighed and started to walk back to the house, scanning for signs of life in the neighboring houses. Everything was dark and quiet and with a small miracle she hoped nobody had witnessed their little scene. She pulled her cell phone out of her coat pocket with the intention of calling their find in.

“It's just not fair, that's all I'm saying.”

Not really listening to Fusco's rant, Carter sighed again, hit speed dial and put the phone to her ear. “Yes, this is Detective Carter ...”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Déjà vu didn't even begin to describe what Harold felt as he once again sped across the streets of New York City with an injured and semi-conscious John Reese slumped in the backseat. Harold wouldn't be surprised if he was able to spot new gray hairs after this little disaster.

He took a glance in the rear view mirror to check on John's condition. Harold hadn't thought it possible but Reese had managed to sink even deeper into the leather of the seat, his eyes closed and his head resting on the headrest, gently moving from side to side following the movement of the car. 

“How are you doing back there, Mr. Reese?” Harold was glad to see that his words managed to rouse John … well, somewhat. Without moving a muscle John mumbled a soft and slightly slurred reply. “Just peachy, Harold.”

“Just hang in there. We're almost there.”

“Oh, I'm hanging. Don't worry, it's just a scratch.”

Somehow the words spoken by a semi-cognizant injured man did not help to appease Harold's worry. Granted, John was a lot more alert than the last time he had been bleeding out on Harold's backseat, but the slurring property of the words only served to negate John's assertion of it 'just being a scratch'. 

“A scratch wouldn't bleed that much, Mr. Reese.” Finch pointed out.

“Huh?” John lifted his head off the headrest, blearily looking down at himself, probing the red stain on his shirt with his hand. “That's not that bad.” he slurred. “I've had worse.” Plopping his head back Reese closed his eyes again.

“Mr. Reese?!” Harold's worried exclamation prompted Reese to mumble something that sounded close to “I'm awake.”  
Pressing his lips together Harold figured he could risk raising his speed a couple of miles per hour more. 

“Hey, Harold?” Finch's eyes traveled back from the road to the rear view mirror, noting that John was still slumped into the seat like the last time he checked. 

“Yes, Mr. Reese?”

“I'm sorry for bleeding all over your backseat again.”

Despite the situation Harold couldn't help but smile. “Don't worry about it. I'll just get a new car.” Reese emitted a soft snort at that, but didn't comment any further. 

The rest of the trip was spent with Harold trying to rouse Reese every few minutes, his worry increasing by how harder it seemed to get the man to respond. Finally arriving at his target address, he got as close to jumping out of the car as he could. He had called ahead and their arrival had already been expected by the doctor, who'd happily declared his willingness to take care of 'special' cases every once in a while and not ask any questions by the monthly fee that Harold had been prepared to pay. 

Together they managed to drag the by now completely out of it Reese into one of Harold's safe houses that he had equipped to facilitate medical treatment whenever the need arose.

Having deposited Reese on an exam table Harold stepped back to give the doctor room to work, telling him the little he knew about what had been done to John. He watched as the doctor peeled back John's eyelids as best as he could, shining a pen light into his eyes. Looking up at Harold he asked, “Do you know which drugs and how much he was given?”

Harold shook his head and the doctor proceeded to probe John's back of the head for injuries. Finding none he then concentrated on John's stab wound, cutting off John's shirt. Harold winced at the sight of John's battered rib cage. A myriad of bruises stood out starkly against the too pale skin of his torso. 

Turning a little green himself by looking at the bloody puncture wound in John's side Harold wondered if he'd ever get used to this, though he wasn't sure that he ever wanted to. Seeing blood still welling up even after the doctor had wiped most of it away Harold's worry increased again.

“How bad is it?” he asked, his voice still no more than a rasp. The doctor looked at him with squinted eyes. Apparently deciding to treat only one patient at a time he gave Harold a reassuring smile.

“It doesn't look to be that deep. No major organs or arteries were hit or he'd bled out already. I'll just have to get the bleeding stopped and replenish the fluids he's lost. I'll keep a close eye on him to make sure there's no internal bleeding, but I think it looks worse than it is.” He continued probing John's rib cage. “Looks like a couple of bruised ribs and two broken.”

“What about the drugs?”

“Hopefully the fluids will help flush them out of his system, but I'll keep an eye on that, too. At the moment his breathing and heartbeat are steady. He'll most likely have to sleep them off.”

Harold was relieved to hear the reassuring assessment of the medical professional, but there was still one more thing he wanted to hear. “So, he'll be okay?”

“Yes”, the doctor said while getting Reese started on an IV with fluids. “He'll be groggy and definitely sore for a while, but should make a full recovery.”

Harold sighed. “Thank God.”

“I'll have a look at your neck later”, remarked the doctor casually, as he attended to the bleeding wound again. “But from what I've heard and seen so far I suggest you'd better limit talking to a minimum before you over-strain your larynx.”

Harold nodded in acquiescence, even though the other man wasn't paying attention to him. Standing beside the exam table he let his eyes roam over Reese's body once more, taking in all the bruises and cuts. Conner had really done a number on John and Harold had to admit that he was glad that that man was never going to hurt anybody anymore. 

“I've got this covered.” Having donned a surgical mask in preparation to applying stitches to John's puncture wound only the doctor's eyes were visible of his face, but it didn't diminish the sternness of his expression as he ordered Harold to go rest until he'd come to check out his throat. Finch was reluctant to leave Reese's side, but he had to admit that his throat and back were starting to kill him as the tension of the last couple of hours was paying its toll. 

In the end, Harold complied with the doctor's orders and went into the living room, where Bear was obediently waiting for him. He picked a spot on the lavish couch to sit and wait. It didn't take long before the exhaustion got the better of him and with Bear's head on his thigh, hand warmed by the animal's soft fur, Harold slowly drifted off to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

The doctor stayed the entire night, keeping a close eye on John's blood pressure and breathing, ready to interfere in case the vitals were dropping below the limits of what was considered being healthy.

He attested Finch a bruised larynx and ordered him to go easy on his voice for the next couple of days. Reese's vitals stayed steady and by noon the following day the doctor took him off the IV line. Promising to stop by the following morning to check on John's dressing, he handed Harold a bottle of painkillers and antibiotics and told him to keep an eye on his patient while John continued to sleep off the drugs.

“If you need me, you know where to reach me.” At Harold's nod the doctor bit his goodbyes and left.

Harold settled himself at the large dinner table and put up his mobile equipment. He checked in with the Detectives to learn about the status of the investigation into Peter Connor and assured them that Reese's condition was not life threatening. In regard to the doctor's orders he kept the call brief to save his voice. Knowing that John was on the mend with Bear keeping watch at the foot of his sick bed, Harold allowed himself to get lost in his research into their newest number, which had come in earlier this morning as he was taking Bear for a walk.

It was hours later when he was startled out of his thoughts by the sounds of someone being physically ill originating from the room John had been sleeping in. Concerned he got up, limping over to the open door as fast as he could. He was surprised to find the bed empty, with Reese nowhere to be seen. For just a brief moment he felt panic that John might have gotten up and managed to re-injure himself, but movement behind the bed caught his eyes. Stepping into the room Harold walked around the bed to find John Reese sitting on the floor hugging a waste basket. 

Bear was dutifully sitting beside him throwing a backwards glance at Finch before turning all his attention back to his master. John's body was once again trembling from the exertion of throwing up and the pain the heaving must have caused him due to his broken and bruised ribs. Not to mention the tearing at the stitches in his side. 

“Mr. Reese?” he asked tentatively and watched John's good eye close briefly. It almost looked to Harold like Mr. Reese was blushing in shame.

“I'm fine, Harold.” Reese said into the basket. 

Finch sighed in exasperation. “You do know, that you sitting beside the bed you'd been pretty much unconscious in for the last”, he consulted his watch, “16 hours and clutching at a waste basket for dear life while endeavoring to even further empty your empty stomach kind of contradicts your statement of 'being fine', don't you?”

John's head ever so slightly turned in Harold's direction, eying his employer out of the corner of his eyes. Softening his tone and not quite able to hide his concern Harold asked, “Want to tell me how you are really feeling?”

John considered the waste basket in front of him and sighed in resignation. “Sick as a dog.” he paused, completing his mental inspection. “And sore as Hell.”  
Harold knew that John being honest with him about his condition was a token of trust and a sign of how much their relationship had changed over the months.

“Do you think you can get up?”

John finally looked at him, a ghost of a smile gracing his lips. “I think I kind of like it where I am at the moment.”

Harold's eyebrows creased in worry. “Should I get the doctor?”

“No.” John minutely shook his head. "It'll pass.”

Finch stood there, not knowing what to do. Making up his mind he went to fetch a glass of water and handed it to Reese, who, after taking a few sips to wash out the taste of bile in his mouth, placed it on the bedside table. Harold then made Bear vacate his spot and stiffly sat down on the floor beside John. Reese eyed him with his one good eye that wasn't swollen shut, taking great interest in the bruises around Harold's neck. 

John had noticed the softness and rasp to Finch's voice before but now, seeing the clear imprints of fingers disguised as bruises confirmed his worry that something had happened to his friend.

“What happened to your throat, Harold?”

Harold looked surprised by John's question. “You … don't remember?”

John's eyebrow creased in thought as the tried to remember what had happened the night before. Or was it two nights already? The last thing he clearly remembered were Billy's terrified and pain-filled screams. Everything else that had happened between the screams stopping and him waking up here - confused, sore and sick to his stomach - was a jumble of disjointed bits of memories. But something in the uncomfortable way Harold Finch was sitting beside him – the closeness – seemed familiar. As his brain supplied him with the piece of information he'd been lacking John's eyes turned hard. 

“I did this, didn't I?” It wasn't really a question. Harold noted that John's shoulders slumped even more and he'd turned his head away and stared at the bin in front of him with clenched jaws.

“It wasn't your fault.” Harold tried to reason. He really did not blame John Reese for his actions while drugged up, injured and relying only on his survival instincts. 

“The Hell it wasn't.” Even though there was no emotion in those words, Reese's hollow expression and the deepening of the lines around his mouth betrayed the anger and hate he felt toward himself and it tore at Finch, but John's next words, spoken ever so softly, just dumbfounded him. “I could have killed you. You should have stayed away.”

Angry, Harold raised his voice, ignoring the pain it caused his throat. “And what? Leave you to bleed out and freeze to death on some God forsaken street?” John kept stoically staring ahead, the muscles in his cheek and neck flexing. “That's _NOT_ going to happen, John.”

John closed his eyes and for a brief moment Harold was able to see the pain John had been bottling up inside - probably for years - clearly written across his face. Breathing out slowly, John leaned his head back to rest it on the mattress. Finch waited him out, knowing that there was nothing more he could say to bring his point across. Now, John only had to accept that he wasn't just an expendable asset anymore and also accept Harold's promise of always backing him up, no matter what.

After a while Reese lifted his head off the bed, placing the waste basket aside. He still wasn't looking at Finch. “You probably shouldn't be talking that much.”

“Are you telling me to shut up, Mr. Reese?”

The ghost of a smile was back on John's features at Harold's mock consternation, which Finch took as a sign that, at least, some of his words had gotten through. With his expression turning serious again, Reese turned his head towards Harold, stopping the movement to not quite look at him with hooded eyes. 

"Do we have any idea how many people Connor killed?"

Mirroring John's somber expression Harold shook his head. "So far the police are treating the scene as a double homicide attempt gone wrong, with an unidentified victim that got away." Detective Carter had informed him, that, though it was still early in the investigation, there was no doubt in Connor having been the perpetrator, since his prints were all over the place, and most importantly, all over the knives. But in regard to a motive the police were still a little at a loss. And Harold had to admit, he wasn't too clear about that himself.

"This was definitely not his first kill." John said with quiet certainty. "He knew what he was doing." 

Harold didn't know what had happened to Reese while in the hands of Peter Connor, and he doubted that John would ever tell him, but the only word that came to his mind to describe the way John Reese looked, as he apparently remembered the night from before, was 'haunted'. 

Thinking out loud Harold said, "Well, we only know about Billy's friends having disappeared, because he said so. And the police doesn't know about that. Nobody's been reported missing." He paused, once more going over the facts in his head. "And there were no bodies found, after all." 

"He took souvenirs."

Reese spoke so softly that Harold wasn't sure he'd understood him correctly. "Souvenirs?" he asked.

“He took a button from each of his victim's clothing. He kept them in a small wooden box that I found in his apartment.” John's eyes sought contact with Harold's, displaying an emptiness that Harold had come to recognize as a sign that John had locked away all his emotions. “There were dozens of them.”

Harold's eyes widened at the implication. “Dozens? Good Lord.” Breaking eye contact, he stared into the distance, letting the entire situation sink in. His mind immediately began to race, trying to explain why Connor's number hadn't come up earlier, how he had managed to fly underneath the machine's radar, but he came up empty. "How?" he whispered to himself, not expecting John to answer. 

He was even more appalled by the notion that Connor would get away with it. Nobody else knew about the meaning behind his inconspicuous collection and evidently Connor had been very careful to not attract any unwanted attention. But in the end he must have done something wrong.

“He'd gotten away with it for so long until he thought himself infallible." At hearing Reese's voice Harold turned to look at him again, who apparently had been thinking along the same lines. "That's usually the first and last mistake.” 

Something in John's quiet tone made Finch realize that he wasn't just talking about Connor anymore, but themselves, as well. John's swollen and colorful face and body bore the evidence of how fast the assumption of being on top of a situation can backfire, and so far, they'd just been damn lucky. Harold didn't want to think about what would happen whenever their luck ran out.

He nodded at John, conveying that he had received the message. A small, lopsided smile played around John's lips, effectively breaking the somber mood. “I think it's time I get off the floor.”

Having ignored the persistent protest his back had been sending his way for sitting in a rather unsupported position for a prolonged time Finch whole-heatedly agreed. They both tried to clumsily get back to their feet, Reese hissing in pain as the movement pulled at the stitches in his side and also due to a whole variety of sore body parts. Finch got to his feet first, having had more practice dealing with his injured back.

He helped John, who'd been struggling to get his feet back under him. John shot him a grateful look as Finch made sure that he was sitting back down on the bed gently. Judging by the tremor in his thighs John figured had he been left by his own devices he'd most likely would have ended up face down on the floor again.

Finch regarded the man in front of him. Exhaustion was written clearly all over his body, the little color that had returned to his face vanishing once again. “How about I go make you some soup and you lay back and rest a little while more?”

"What about the next number?" John asked in earnest and Harold almost laughed out loud.

"I really commend you on your dedication to your job, Mr. Reese, but I really don't think that, in your current condition, you'd be much of a help." Harold half expected for Reese to argue the point, but the fact that John didn't and readily conceded to Harold's reasoning only served to confirm Harold's suspicion that John was still far from feeling well. "Just get some rest. I'm sure Bear and I will be able to handle the numbers on our own for a day or two."

Despite his evident exhaustion, John's one good eye sparkled with amusement as he raised his brow. “You're gonna tuck me in, Finch?”

Sighing in exasperation Finch shot Reese a stern look, who smirked back at him undisguised. “I'm sure you can manage on your own.”

Still smirking, Reese slowly and stiffly scooted back, managing – as predicted – to cover himself with the soft blankets.

Finch's eye fell on the waste basket John had discarded by the head of the bed. He indicated the object with his head. “Do you think you'll still be in need of that?”

Reese looked down, slightly grimacing at the sight. “No, I think I'll be fine.”

Harold nodded and picked it up, intending to get rid of it entirely. 

“Thanks, Harold.” John said softly, already having sunk deep into the pillows.

“Don't mention it.”

Heading for the door, Finch had the feeling that by the time the soup was going to be done he'd find Mr. Reese fast asleep again. He decided to shelve the conversation about Reese's habit of crudely rushing into unknown situations for a later time. Almost having reached the door, a silly thought struck him. “You know, Mr. Reese?”

A mumbled “What?” coming from the direction of the bed confirmed that the other man was still listening.

“I'm really glad this thing isn't made of wicker.”

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's note:** So, this is it. Thank you all for reading and in case you haven't done it already, now would be a great time to let me know what you thought about the story. What you liked as well as you didn't like (please be nice about it, though), so I can hopefully improve my writing.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Author's notes** : Reese read the quote in The Book of Counted Sorrows. It originally goes like this:
> 
>  
> 
> _Evil is a faceless stranger,_  
>  _living in a distant neighborhood._  
>  _Evil has a wholesome, hometown face,_  
>  _with merry eyes and an open smile._  
>  _Evil walks among us, wearing a mask_  
>  _which looks like all our faces._


End file.
